IlilillJl!!!!!!! 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 

PAUL  TURNER,  U.S.M.C.R. 

KILLED  IN  ACTION,  SAIPAN 

JUNE,  1944 


"HOW  MANY  MEN  HAVE  YOU  HERE?" 

— In  a  Hollow  of  the  Hills 


"ARGONAUT   EDITION"   OF 
THE   WORKS   OF   BRET   HARTE 


BARKER'S   LUCK 

IN   A   HOLLOW   OF   THE    HILLS 

BY 
BRET   HARTE 

ILLUSTRATED 


P.   F.   COLLIER   &f  SON 

NEW    YORK 


f^tbhshtd  vnder  tpeeial  arranffemtnt  vitk 
Me  Iloughtun  Mijtin  Company 


COPYRIGHT  1895  AND  1896 
BY  BRET  HARTE 
All  rights  reserved 


PS 


CONTENTS. 


BARKER'S  LUCK 1 

A  YELLOW  DOG 44 

A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE 63 

BULGER'S  REPUTATION 80 

IN  THE  TULES 104 

A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION     ....  141 

THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH   ....  182 

THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ            .  216 


Bret  Harte  1— V.  6 


V 

810100 


BARKER'S  LUCK 


A  BIRD  twittered !  The  morning  sun 
shining  through  the  open  window  was  ap- 
parently more  potent  than  the  cool  moun- 
tain air,  which  had  only  caused  the  sleeper 
to  curl  a  little  more  tightly  in  his  blankets. 
Barker's  eyes  opened  instantly  upon  the 
light  and  the  bird  on  the  window  ledge. 
Like  all  healthy  young  animals  he  would 
have  tried  to  sleep  again,  but  with  his  mo- 
mentary consciousness  came  the  recollection 
that  it  was  his  turn  to  cook  the  breakfast 
that  morning,  and  he  regretfully  rolled  out 
of  his  bunk  to  the  floor.  Without  stopping 
to  dress  he '  opened  the  door  and  stepped 
outside,  secure  in  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
overlooked  only  by  the  Sierras,  and  plunged 
his  head  and  shoulders  in  the  bucket  of  cold 
water  that  stood  by  the  door.  Then  he  be- 
gan to  clothe  himself,  partly  in  the  cabin  and 


2  BABKER'S  LUCK. 

partly  in  the  open  air,  with  a  lapse  between 
the  putting  on  of  his  trousers  and  coat  which 
he  employed  in  bringing  in  wood.  Raking 
together  the  few  embers  on  the  adobe  hearth, 
not  without  a  prudent  regard  to  the  rattle- 
snake which  had  once  been  detected  in 
haunting  the  warm  ashes,  he  began  to  pre- 
pare breakfast.  By  this  time  the  other 
sleepers,  his  partners  Stacy  and  Demorest, 
young  men  of  about  his  own  age,  were 
awake,  alert,  and  lazily  critical  of  his  pro- 
gress. 

"  I  don't  care  about  my  quail  on  toast 
being  underdone  for  breakfast,"  said  Stacy, 
with  a  yawn  ;  "  and  you  need  n't  serve  with 
red  wine.  I'm  not  feeling  very  peckish 
this  morning." 

"  And  I  reckon  you  can  knock  off  the 
fried  oysters  after  the  Spanish  mackerel  for 
me,"  said  Demorest  gravely.  "  The  fact  is, 
that  last  bottle  of  Veuve  Clicquot  we  had 
for  supper  was  n't  as  dry  as  I  am  this  morn- 
ing." 

Accustomed  to  these  regular  Barmecide 
suggestions,  Barker  made  no  direct  reply. 
Presently,  looking  up  from  the  fire,  he  said, 
"  There 's  no  more  saleratus,  so  you  must  n't 
blame  me  if  the  biscuit  is  extra  heavy.  I 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  6 

told  you  we  had  none  when  you  went  to  the 
grocery  yesterday." 

"  And  I  told  you  we  had  n't  a  red  cent  to 
buy  any  with,"  said  Stacy,  who  was  also 
treasurer.  "  Put  these  two  negatives  to- 
gether and  you  make  the  affirmative  — 
saleratus.  Mix  freely  and  bake  in  a  hot 
oven." 

Nevertheless,  after  a  toilette  as  primitive 
as  Barker's  they  sat  down  to  what  he  had 
prepared,  with  the  keen  appetite  begotten 
of  the  mountain  air  and  the  regretful  fasti- 
diousness born  of  the  recollection  of  better 
things.  Jerked  beef,  frizzled  with  salt  pork 
in  a  frying-pan,  boiled  potatoes,  biscuit, 
and  coffee  composed  the  repast.  The  bis- 
cuits, however,  proving  remarkably  heavy 
after  the  first  mouthful,  were  used  as  mis- 
siles, thrown  through  the  open  door  at  an 
empty  bottle,  which  had  previously  served 
as  a  mark  for  revolver  practice,  and  a  few 
moments  later  pipes  were  lit  to  counteract 
the  effects  of  the  meal  and  take  the  taste 
out  of  their  mouths.  Suddenly  they  heard 
the  sound  of  horses'  hoofs,  saw  the  quick 
passage  of  a  rider  in  the  open  space  before 
the  cabin,  and  felt  the  smart  impact  upon 
the  table  of  some  small  object  thrown  by 


4  BAEKER'S  LUCK. 

him.  It  was  the  regular  morning  delivery 
of  the  county  newspaper ! 

"  He  's  getting  to  be  a  mighty  sure  shot," 
said  Demorest  approvingly,  looking  at  his 
upset  can  of  coffee  as  he  picked  up  the 
paper,  rolled  into  a  cylindrical  wad  as  tightly 
as  a  cartridge,  and  began  to  straighten  it 
out.  This  was  no  easy  matter,  as  the  sheet 
had  evidently  been  rolled  while  yet  damp 
from  the  press ;  but  Demorest  eventually 
opened  it  and  ensconced  himself  behind  it. 

"  Nary  news  ?  "  asked  Stacy. 

"No.  There  never  is  any,"  said  Demo- 
rest scornfully.  "  We  ought  to  stop  the 
paper." 

"  You  mean  the  paper  man  ought  to.  We 
don't  pay  him,"  said  Barker  gently. 

"Well,  that's  the  same  thing,  smarty. 
No  news,  no  pay.  Hallo  !  "  he  continued, 
his  eyes  suddenly  riveted  on  the  paper. 
Then,  after  the  fashion  of  ordinary  hu- 
manity, he  stopped  short  and  read  the  in- 
teresting item  to  himself.  When  he  had 
finished  he  brought  his  fist  and  the  paper, 
together,  violently  down  upon  the  table. 
"  Now  look  at  this !  Talk  of  luck,  will  you  ? 
Just  think  of  it.  Here  are  we  — hard-work* 
ing  men  with  lots  of  sale,  too  —  grubbin' 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  5 

away  on  this  hillside  like  niggers,  glad  to 
get  enough  at  the  end  of  the  day  to  pay  for 
our  soggy  biscuits  and  horse-bean  coffee, 
and  just  look  what  falls  into  the  lap  of  some 
lazy  sneakin'  greenhorn  who  never  did  a 
stroke  of  work  in  his  life  !  Here  are  we, 
with  no  foolishness,  no  airs  nor  graces,  and 
yet  men  who  would  do  credit  to  twice  that 
amount  of  luck  —  and  seem  born  to  it,  too 
—  and  we  're  set  aside  for  some  long,  lank, 
pen-wiping  scrub  who  just  knows  enough  to 
sit  down  on  his  office  stool  and  hold  on  to  a 
bit  of  paper." 

"What's  up  now?"  asked  Stacy,  with 
the  carelessness  begotten  of  familiarity  with 
his  partner's  extravagance. 

"  Listen,"  said  Demorest,  reading.  "  An- 
other unprecedented  rise  has  taken  place  in 
the  shares  of  the  '  Yellow  Hammer  First 
Extension  Mine '  since  the  sinking  of  the 
new  shaft.  It  was  quoted  yesterday  at  ten 
thousand  dollars  a  foot.  When  it  is  remem- 
bered that  scarcely  two  years  ago  the  origi- 
nal shares,  issued  at  fifty  dollars  per  share, 
had  dropped  to  only  fifty  cents  a  share,  it 
will  be  seen  that  those  who  were  able  to 
hold  on  have  got  a  good  thing." 

"What  mine  did  you  say?"  asked  Bar- 


6  BABEER'S  LUCK. 

ker,  looking  up  meditatively  from  the  dishes 
he  was  already  washing. 

"  The  Yellow  Hammer  First  Extension," 
returned  Demorest  shortly. 

"  I  used  to  have  some  shares  in  that,  and 
I  think  I  have  them  still,"  said  Barker 
musingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Demorest  promptly  ;  "  the 
paper  speaks  of  it  here.  '  We  understand,'  " 
he  continued,  reading  aloud,  '  that  our  emi- 
nent fellow  citizen,  George  Barker,  other- 
wise known  as  "  Get  Left  Barker "  and 
"  Chucklehead,"  is  one  of  these  fortunate 
individuals.' " 

"  No,"  said  Barker,  with  a  slight  flush  of 
innocent  pleasure,  "  it  can't  say  that.  How 
could  it  know  ?  " 

Stacy  laughed,  but  Demorest  coolly  con- 
tinued :  "  You  did  n't  hear  all.  Listen  ! 
'  We  say  was  one  of  them  ;  but  having  al- 
ready sold  his  apparently  useless  certificates 
to  our  popular  druggist,  Jones,  for  corn 
plasters,  at  a  reduced  rate,  he  is  unable  to 
realize.' " 

"You  may  laugh,  boys,"  said  Barker, 
with  simple  seriousness  ;  "  but  I  really  be- 
lieve I  have  got  'em  yet.  Just  wait.  I  '11 
see ! "  He  rose  and  began  to  drag  out 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  7 

a  well-worn  valise  from  under  his  bunk. 
"  You  see,"  he  continued,  "  they  were  given 
to  me  by  an  old  chap  in  return  "  — 

"  For  saving  his  life  by  delaying  the 
Stockton  boat  that  afterwards  blew  up," 
returned  Demorest  briefly.  "  We  know  it 
all !  His  hair  was  white,  and  his  hand 
trembled  slightly  as  he  laid  these  shares  in 
yours,  saying,  and  you  never  forgot  the 
words,  '  Take  'em,  young  man  —  and '  "  — 

"  For  lending  him  two  thousand  dollars, 
then,"  continued  Barker  with  a  simple  ig- 
noring of  the  interruption,  as  he  quietly 
brought  out  the  valise. 

"  Two  thousand  dollars ! "  repeated 
Stacy.  "  When  did  you  have  two  thou- 
sand dollars  ?  " 

"  When  I  first  left  Sacramento  —  three 
years  ago,"  said  Barker,  unstrapping  the 
valise. 

"  How  long  did  you  have  it  ?  "  said  De- 
morest incredulously. 

"  At  least  two  days,  I  think,"  returned 
Barker  quietly.  "  Then  I  met  that  man. 
He  was  hard  up,  and  I  lent  him  my  pile  and 
took  those  shares.  He  died  afterwards." 

"  Of  course  he  did,"  said  Demorest  se- 
verely. "  They  always  do.  Nothing  kills  a 


8  BARKERS  LUCK. 

man  more  quickly  than  an  action  of  that 
kind."  Nevertheless  the  two  partners  re- 
garded Barker  rummaging  among  some  loose 
clothes  and  papers  with  a  kind  of  paternal 
toleration.  "  If  you  can't  find  them,  bring 
out  your  government  bonds,"  suggested 
Stacy.  But  the  next  moment,  flushed  and 
triumphant,  Barker  rose  from  his  knees,  and 
came  towards  them  carrying  some  papers  in 
his  hands.  Demorest  seized  them  from  him, 
opened  them,  spread  them  on  the  table,  ex- 
amined hurriedly  the  date,  signatures,  and 
transfers,  glanced  again  quickly  at  the  news- 
paper paragraph,  looked  wildly  at  Stacy 
and  then  at  Barker,  and  gasped,  — 

"  By  the  living  hookey !  it  is  so  /  " 

"  B'  gosh !  he  has  got  'em  !  "  echoed  Stacy. 

"  Twenty  shares,"  continued  Demorest 
breathlessly,  "  at  ten  thousand  dollars  a 
share  —  even  if  it 's  only  a  foot  —  is  two 
hundred  thousand  dollars  !  Jerusalem  !  " 

"  Tell  me,  fair  sir,"  said  Stacy,  with 
sparkling  eyes,  "  hast  still  left  in  yonder 
casket  any  rare  jewels,  rubies,  sarcenet,  or 
links  of  fine  gold?  Perad venture  a  pearl 
or  two  may  have  been  overlooked !  " 

"  No  —  that 's  all,"  returned  Barker  sim- 

ply. 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  9 

"  You  hear  him !  Rothschild  says  *  that 's 
all.'  Prince  Esterhazy  says  he  has  n't  an- 
other red  cent  —  only  two  hundred  thou- 
sand dollars." 

"  What  ought  I  to  do,  boys  ?  "  asked  Bar- 
ker, timidly  glancing  from  one  to  the  other. 
Yet  he  remembered  with  delight  all  that 
day,  and  for  many  a  year  afterwards,  that 
he  only  saw  in  their  faces  unselfish  joy  and 
affection  at  that  supreme  moment. 

"  Do  ?  "  said  Demorest  promptly.  "  Stand 
on  your  head  and  yell !  No !  stop !  Come 
here !  "  he  seized  both  Barker  and  Stacy  by 
the  hand,  and  ran  out  into  the  open  air. 
Here  they  danced  violently  with  clasped 
hands  around  a  small  buckeye,  in  perfect 
silence,  and  then  returned  to  the  cabin, 
grave  but  perspiring. 

"  Of  course,"  said  Barker,  wiping  his 
forehead,  "  we  '11  just  get  some  money  on 
these  certificates  and  buy  up  that  next  claim 
which  belongs  to  old  Carter  —  where  you 
know  we  thought  we  saw  the  indication." 

"  We  '11  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said 
Demorest  decidedly.  "  We  ain't  in  it.  That 
money  is  yours,  old  chap  —  every  cent  of  it 
—  property  acquired  before  marriage,  you 
know  ;  and  the  only  thing  we  '11  do  is  to  bo 


10  BARKERS  LUCK 

d — cl  before  we  '11  see  you  drop  a  dime  of 
it  into  this  God-forsaken  hole.  No  !  " 

"  But  we  're  partners,"  gasped  Barker. 

"  Not  in  this  !  The  utmost  we  can  do  for 
you,  opulent  sir,  —  though  it  ill  becomes  us 
horny-handed  sons  of  toil  to  rub  shoulders 
with  Dives,  —  is  perchance  to  dine  with  you, 
to  take  a  pasty  and  a  glass  of  Malvoisie, 
at  some  restaurant  in  Sacramento  —  when 
you  've  got  things  fixed,  in  honor  of  your 
return  to  affluence.  But  more  would  ill 
become  us ! " 

"  But  what  are  you  going  to  do  ?  "  said 
Barker,  with  a  half-hysteric,  half -frightened 
smile. 

"  We  have  not  yet  looked  through  our 
luggage,"  said  Demovest  with  invincible 
gravity,  "and  there's  a  secret  recess  —  a 
double  fond  —  to  my  portmanteau,  known 
only  to  a  trusty  page,  which  has  not  been 
disturbed  since  I  left  my  ancestral  home  in 
Faginia.  There  may  be  a  few  First  Deben- 
tures of  Erie  or  what  not  still  there." 

"  I  felt  some  strange,  disk-like  protuber- 
ances in  my  dress  suit  the  other  day,  but 
belike  they  are  but  poker  chips,"  said  Stacy 
thoughtfully. 

An  uneasy  feeling   crept    over    Barker. 


BARKER1  S  LUCK.  11 

The  color  which  had  left  his  fresh  cheek 
returned  to  it  quickly,  and  he  turned  his 
eyes  away.  Yet  he  had  seen  nothing  in  his 
companions'  eyes  but  affection  —  with  even 
a  certain  kind  of  tender  commiseration  that 
deepened  his  uneasiness.  "  I  suppose,"  he 
said  desperately,  after  a  pause,  "  I  ought  to 
go  over  to  Boomville  and  make  some  in- 
quiries." 

"  At  the  bank,  old  chap  ;  at  the  bank  !  " 
said  Demorest  emphatically.  "  Take  my 
advice  and  don't  go  anywhere  else.  Don't 
breathe  a  word  of  your  luck  to  anybody. 
And  don't,  whatever  you  do,  be  tempted  to 
sell  just  now ;  you  don't  know  how  high  that 
stock  's  going  to  jump  yet." 

"  I  thought,"  stammered  Barker,  "  that 
you  boys  might  like  to  go  over  with  me." 

"  We  can't  afford  to  take  another  holi- 
day on  grub  wages,  and  we  're  only  two  to 
work  to-day,"  said  Demorest,  with  a  slight 
increase  of  color  and  the  faintest  tremor  in 
his  voice.  "  And  it  won't  do,  old  chap,  for 
us  to  be  seen  bumming  round  with  you  on 
the  heels  of  your  good  fortune.  For  every- 
body knows  we  're  poor,  and  sooner  or  later 
everybody  '11  know  you  were  rich  even  when 
you  first  came  to  us." 


12  BARKER'S  LUCK. 

"  Nonsense !  "  said  Barker  indignantly. 

"  Gospel,  my  boy !  "  said  Demorest  shortly, 

"  The  frozen  truth,  old  man  !  "  said  Stacy. 

Barker  took  up  his  hat  with  some  stiff- 
ness and  moved  towards  the  door.  Here  he 
stopped  irresolutely,  an  irresolution  that 
seemed  to  communicate  itself  to  his  part- 
ners. There  was  a  moment's  awkward 
silence.  Then  Demorest  suddenly  seized 
him  by  the  shoulders  with  a  grip  that  was 
half  a  caress,  and  walked  him  rapidly  to  the 
door.  u  And  now  don't  stand  foolin'  with 
us,  Barker  boy ;  but  just  trot  off  like  a 
little  man,  and  get  your  grip  on  that  for- 
tune ;  and  when  you  've  got  your  hooks  in 
it  hang  on  like  grim  death.  You  '11 "  —  he 
hesitated  for  an  instant  only,  possibly  to  find 
the  laugh  that  should  have  accompanied  his 
speech  —  "  you  're  sure  to  find  us  here  when 
you  get  back." 

Hurt  to  the  quick,  but  restraining  his 
feelings,  Barker  clapped  his  hat  on  his  head 
and  walked  quickly  away.  The  two  part- 
ners stood  watching  him  in  silence  until  his 
figure  was  lost  in  the  underbrush.  Then 
they  spoke. 

"  Like  him  —  was  n't  it  ?  "  said  Demorest. 

"  Just  him  all  over,"  said  Stacy. 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  13 

"  Think  of  him  having  that  stock  stowed 
away  all  these  years  and  never  even  bother- 
ing his  dear  old  head  about  it !  " 

"And  think  of  his  wanting  to  put  the 
whole  thing  into  this  rotten  hillside  with 
us ! " 

"  And  he  'd  have  done  it,  by  gosh !  and 
never  thought  of  it  again.  That 's  Barker." 

"  Dear  old  man  !  " 

"  Good  old  chap  !  " 

"  I  've  been  wondering  if  one  of  us 
ought  n't  to  have  gone  with  him  ?  He 's  just 
as  likely  to  pour  his  money  into  the  first 
lap  that  opens  for  it,"  said  Stacy. 

"  The  more  reason  why  we  should  n't  pre- 
vent him,  or  seem  to  prevent  him,"  said 
Demorest  almost  fiercely.  "  There  will  be 
knaves  and  fools  enough  who  will  try  and 
put  the  idea  of  our  using  him  into  his  sim- 
ple heart  without  that.  No !  Let  him  do 
as  he  likes  with  it  —  but  let  him  be  himself. 
I  'd  rather  have  him  come  back  to  us  even 
after  he 's  lost  the  money  —  his  old  self 
and  empty-handed  —  than  try  to  change  the 
stuff  God  put  into  him  and  make  him  more 
like  others." 

The  tone  and  manner  were  so  different 
from  Demorest's  usual  levity  that  Stacy  was 


14  BARKER' S  LUCK. 

silent.  After  a  pause  he  said  :  "  Well !  we 
shall  miss  him  on  the  hillside  —  won't  we  ?  " 

Demorest  did  not  reply.  Reaching  out 
his  hand  abstractedly,  he  wrenched  off  a 
small  slip  from  a  sapling  near  him,  and  be- 
gan slowly  to  pull  the  leaves  off,  one  by 
one,  until  they  were  all  gone.  Then  he 
switched  it  in  the  air,  struck  his  bootleg 
smartly  with  it,  said  roughly :  "  Come,  let 's 
get  to  work  !  "  and  strode  away. 

Meantime  Barker  on  his  way  to  Boomville 
was  no  less  singular  in  his  manner.  He 
kept  up  his  slightly  affected  attitude  until 
he  had  lost  sight  of  the  cabin.  But,  being 
of  a  simple  nature,  his  emotions  were  less 
complex.  If  he  had  not  seen  the  undoubted 
look  of  affection  in  the  eyes  of  his  partners 
he  would  have  imagined  that  they  were 
jealous  of  his  good  fortune.  Yet  why  had 
they  refused  his  offer  to  share  it  with  him? 
Why  had  they  so  strangely  assumed  that 
their  partnership  with  him  had  closed  ? 
Why  had  they  declined  to  go  with  him? 
Why  had  this  money  —  of  which  he  had 
thought  so  little,  and  for  which  he  had  cared 
so  little  —  changed  them  towards  him  ?  It 
had  not  changed  him  —  he  was  the  same ! 
He  remembered  how  they  had  often  talked 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  15 

and  laughed  over  a  prospective  "  strike  "  in 
mining  and  speculated  what  they  would  do 
together  with  the  money !  And  now  that 
"  luck  "  had  occurred  to  one  of  them,  indi- 
vidually, the  effect  was  only  to  alienate 
them !  He  could  not  make  it  out.  He  was 
hurt,  wounded  —  yet  oddly  enough  he  was 
conscious  now  of  a  certain  power  within 
him  to  hurt  and  wound  in  retribution.  He 
was  rich:  he  would  let  them  see  he  could 
do  without  them.  He  was  quite  free  now 
to  think  only  of  himself  and  Kitty. 

For  it  must  be  recorded  that,  with  all 
this  young  gentleman's  simplicity  and  un- 
selfishness, with  all  his  loyal  attitude  to  his 
partners,  his  JiTst  thought  at  the  moment 
he  grasped  the  fact  of  his  wealth  was  of 
a  young  lady.  It  was  Kitty  Carter,  the 
daughter  of  the  hotel  keeper  at  Boomville, 
who  owned  the  claim  that  the  partners  had 
mutually  coveted.  That  a  pretty  girl's  face 
should  flash  upon  him  with  his  conviction 
that  he  was  now  a  rich  man  meant  perhaps 
no  disloyalty  to  his  partners,  whom  he  woidd 
still  have  helped.  But  it  occurred  to  him 
now,  in  his  half  hurt,  half  vengeful  state, 
that  they  had  often  joked  him  about  Kitty, 
and  perhaps  further  confidence  with  them 


16  BARKER'S  LUCK. 

was  debarred.  And  it  was  only  due  to  his 
dignity  that  he  should  now  see  Kitty  at 
once. 

This  was  easy  enough,  for,  in  the  nai've 
simplicity  of  Boomville,  and  the  economic 
arrangements  of  her  father,  she  occasionally 
waited  upon  the  hotel  table.  Half  the  town 
was  always  actively  in  love  with  her ;  the 
other  half  had  been,  and  was  silent,  cynical, 
but  hopeless  in  defeat.  For  Kitty  was  one 
of  those  singularly  pretty  girls  occasionally 
met  with  in  Southwestern  frontier  civiliza- 
tion whose  distinct  and  original  refinement 
of  face  and  figure  were  so  remarkable  and 
original  as  to  cast  a  doubt  on  the  sagacity 
and  prescience  of  one  parent  and  the  mo- 
rality of  the  other,  yet  no  doubt  with  equal 
injustice.  But  the  fact  remained  that  she 
was  slight,  graceful,  and  self-contained,  and 
moved  beside  her  stumpy,  commonplace 
father,  and  her  faded,  commonplace  mother, 
in  the  dining-room  of  the  Boomville  Hotel 
like  some  distinguished  alien.  The  three 
partners,  by  virtue,  perhaps,  of  their  college 
education  and  refined  manners,  had  been 
exceptionally  noticed  by  Kitty.  And  for 
some  occult  reason  —  the  more  serious,  per- 
haps, because  it  had  no  obvious  or  logical 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  17 

presumption  to  the  world  generally  —  Bar- 
ker was  particularly  favored. 

He  quickened  his  pace,  and  as  the  flag- 
staff of  the  Boomville  Hotel  rose  before  him 
in  the  little  hollow,  he  seriously  debated 
whether  he  had  not  better  go  to  the  bank 
first,  deposit  his  shares,  and  get  a  small  ad- 
vance on  them  to  buy  a  new  necktie  or  a 
"boiled  shirt"  in  which  to  present  himself 
to  Miss  Kitty ;  but,  remembering  that  he  had 
partly  given  his  word  to  Demorest  that  he 
would  keep  his  shares  intact  for  the  present, 
he  abandoned  this  project,  probably  from 
the  fact  that  his  projected  confidence  with 
Kitty  was  already  a  violation  of  Demorest's 
injunctions  of  secrecy,  and  his  conscience 
was  sufficiently  burdened  with  that  breach 
of  faith. 

But  when  he  reached  the  hotel,  a  strange 
trepidation  overcame  him.  The  dining-room 
was  at  its  slack  water,  between  the  ebb  of 
breakfast  and  before  the  flow  of  the  prepa- 
ration for  the  midday  meal.  He  could  not 
have  his  interview  with  Kitty  in  that  dreary 
waste  of  reversed  chairs  and  bare  trestle- 
like  tables,  and  she  was  possibly  engaged  in 
her  household  duties.  But  Miss  Kitty  had 
already  seen  him  cross  the  road,  and  had 


18  BAEEEE'S  LUCK. 

lounged  into  the  dining-room  with  an  art- 
fully simulated  air  of  casually  examining 
it.  At  the  unexpected  vision  of  his  hopes, 
arrayed  in  the  sweetest  and  freshest  of  rose- 
bud sprigged  print,  his  heart  faltered.  Then, 
partly  with  the  desperation  of  a  timid  man, 
and  partly  through  the  working  of  a  half- 
formed  resolution,  he  met  her  bright  smile 
with  a  simple  inquiry  for  her  father.  Miss 
Kitty  bit  her  pretty  lip,  smiled  slightly,  and 
preceded  him  with  great  formality  to  the 
office.  Opening  the  door,  without  raising 
her  lashes  to  either  her  father  or  the  visitor, 
she  said,  with  a  mischievous  accenting  of 
the  professional  manner,  "Mr.  Barker  to 
see  you  on  business,"  and  tripped  sweetly 
away. 

And  this  slight  incident  precipitated  the 
crisis.  For  Barker  instantly  made  up  his 
mind  that  he  must  purchase  the  next  claim 
for  his  partners  of  this  man  Carter,  and  that 
he  would  be  obliged  to  confide  to  him  the 
details  of  his  good  fortune,  and,  as  a  proof 
of  his  sincerity  and  his  ability  to  pay  for  it, 
he  did  so  bluntly.  Carter  was  a  shrewd 
business  man,  and  the  well-known  simplicity 
of  Barker  was  a  proof  of  his  truthfulness,  to 
say  nothing  of  the  shares  that  were  shown 


BARKERS  LUCE.  19 

to  him.  His  selling  price  for  his  claim  had 
been  two  hundred  dollars,  but  here  was  a 
rich  customer  who,  from  a  mere  foolish  sen- 
timent, would  be  no  doubt  willing  to  pay 
more.  He  hesitated  with  a  bland  but  su- 
perior smile.  "  Ah,  that  was  my  price  at 
my  last  offer,  Mr.  Barker,"  he  said  suavely ; 
"but,  you  see,  things  are  going  up  since 
then." 

The  keenest  duplicity  is  apt  to  fail  before 
absolute  simplicity.  Barker,  thoroughly  be- 
lieving him,  and  already  a  little  frightened 
at  his  own  presumption  — not  for  the  amount 
of  the  money  involved,  but  from  the  possi- 
bility of  his  partners  refusing  his  gift  utterly 
—  quickly  took  advantage  of  this  locus  pen- 
itentice.  "No  matter,  then,"  he  said  hur- 
riedly ;  "  perhaps  I  had  better  consult  my 
partners  first;  in  fact,"  he  added,  with  a 
gratuitous  truthfulness  all  his  own,  "  I  hardly 
know  whether  they  will  take  it  of  me,  so  I 
think  I  '11  wait." 

Carter  was  staggered ;  this  would  clearly 
not  do  !  He  recovered  himself  with  an  in- 
sinuating smile.  "You  pulled  me  up  too 
short,  Mr.  Barker ;  I  'm  a  business  man, 
but  hang  it  all !  what 's  that  among  friends  ? 
If  you  reckoned  I  gave  my  word  at  two 


20  BARKER'S  LUCK. 

hundred  —  why,  I  'm  there !  Say  no  more 
about  it  —  the  claim  's  yours.  I  '11  make 
you  out  a  bill  of  sale  at  once." 

"But,"  hesitated  Barker,  "you  see  I 
have  n't  got  the  money  yet,  and  "  — 

"  Money! "  echoed  Carter  bluntly, "  what 's 
that  among  friends  ?  Gimme  your  note  at 
thirty  days  —  that 's  good  enough  for  me. 
An'  we  '11  settle  the  whole  thing  now,  — 
nothing  like  finishing  a  job  while  you'  re 
about  it."  And  before  the  bewildered  and 
doubtful  visitor  could  protest,  he  had  filled 
up  a  promissory  note  for  Barker's  signature 
and  himself  signed  a  bill  of  sale  for  the 
property.  "  And  I  reckon,  Mr.  Barker, 
you  'd  like  to  take  your  partners  by  sur- 
prise about  this  little  gift  of  yours,"  he 
added  smilingly.  "  Well,  my  messenger 
is  starting  for  the  Gulch  in  five  minutes; 
he  's  going  by  your  cabin,  and  he  can  just 
drop  this  bill  o'  sale,  as  a  kind  o'  settled 
fact,  on  'em  afore  they  can  say  anything, 
see !  There 's  nothing  like  actin'  on  the 
spot  in  these  sort  of  things.  And  don't 
you  hurry  'bout  them  either!  You  see, 
you  sorter  owe  us  a  friendly  call  —  havin' 
always  dropped  inter  the  hotel  only  as  a 
customer  —  so  ye  '11  stop  here  over  luncheon, 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  21 

and  I  reckon,  as  the  old  woman  is  busy,  why 
Kitty  will  try  to  make  the  time  pass  till 
then  by  playin'  for  you  on  her  new  pian- 
ner." 

Delighted,  yet  bewildered  by  the  unex- 
pected invitation  and  opportunity,  Barker 
mechanically  signed  the  promissory  note, 
and  as  mechanically  addressed  the  envelope 
of  the  bill  of  sale  to  Demorest,  which  Carter 
gave  to  the  messenger.  Then  he  followed 
his  host  across  the  hall  to  the  apartment 
known  as  "  Miss  Kitty's  parlor."  He  had 
often  heard  of  it  as  a  sanctum  impervious 
to  the  ordinary  guest.  Whatever  functions 
the  young  girl  assumed  at  the  hotel  and 
among  her  father's  boarders,  it  was  vaguely 
understood  that  she  dropped  them  on  cross- 
ing that  sacred  threshold,  and  became  "  Miss 
Carter."  The  county  judge  had  been  enter- 
tained there,  and  the  wife  of  the  bank  man- 
ager. Barker's  admission  there  was  conse- 
quently an  unprecedented  honor. 

He  cast  his  eyes  timidly  round  the  room, 
redolent  and  suggestive  in  various  charming 
little  ways  of  the  young  girl's  presence. 
There  was  the  cottage  piano  which  had  been 
brought  up  in  sections  on  the  backs  of  mules 
from,  the  foot  of  the  mountain  ;  there  was  a 


22  BARKER'S  LUCK 

crayon  head  of  Minerva  done  by  the  fair 
occupant  at  the  age  of  twelve ;  there  was  a 
profile  of  herself  done  by  a  traveling  artist ; 
there  were  pretty  little  china  ornaments  and 
many  flowers,  notably  a  faded  but  still 
scented  woodland  shrub  which  Barker  had 
presented  to  her  two  weeks  ago,  and  over 
which  Miss  Kitty  had  discreetly  thrown  her 
white  handkerchief  as  he  entered.  A  wave 
of  hope  passed  over  him  at  the  act,  but  it 
was  quickly  spent  as  Mr.  Carter's  roughly 
playful  voice  introduced  him  :  — 

"  Ye  kin  give  Mr.  Barker  a  tune  or  two  to 
pass  time  afore  lunch,  Kitty.  You  kin  let 
him  see  what  you're  doing  in  that  line. 
But  you  '11  have  to  sit  up  now,  for  this  young 
man's  come  inter  some  property,  and  will  be 
sasheying  round  in  'Frisco  afore  long  with 
a  biled  shirt  and  a  stove-pipe,  and  be  givin' 
the  go-by  to  Boomville.  Well !  you  young 
folks  will  excuse  me  for  a  while,  as  I  reckon 
I  '11  just  toddle  over  and  get  the  recorder  to 
put  that  bill  o'  sale  on  record.  Nothin'  like 
squaring  things  to  onct,  Mr.  Barker." 

As  he  slipped  away,  Barker  felt  his  heart 
sink.  Carter  had  not  only  bluntly  forestalled 
him  with  the  news,  and  taken  away  his  ex- 
cuse for  a  confidential  interview,  but  had 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  23 

put  an  ostentatious  construction  on  his  visit. 
What  could  she  think  of  him  now  ?  He 
stood  ashamed  and  embarrassed  before  her. 

But  Miss  Kitty,  far  from  noticing  his  em- 
barrassment in  a  sudden  concern  regarding 
the  "  horrid  "  untidiness  of  the  room,  which 
made  her  cheeks  quite  pink  in  one  spot, 
and  obliged  her  to  take  up  and  set  down  in 
exactly  the  same  place  several  articles,  was 
exceedingly  delighted.  In  fact,  she  did  not 
remember  ever  having  been  so  pleased  be- 
fore in  her  life  !  These  things  were  always 
so  unexpected !  Just  like  the  weather,  for 
instance.  It  was  quite  cool  last  night  — 
and  now  it  was  just  stifling.  And  so  dusty ! 
Had  Mr.  Barker  noticed  the  heat  coming 
from  the  Gulch  ?  Or  perhaps,  being  a  rich 
man,  he  —  with  a  dazzling  smile — was 
above  walking  now.  It  was  so  kind  of  him 
to  come  here  first  and  tell  her  father. 

"  I  really  wanted  to  tell  only  —  you,  Miss 
Carter,"  stammered  Barker.  "  You  see  "  — 
he  hesitated.  But  Miss  Kitty  saw  perfectly. 
He  wanted  to  tell  her,  and,  seeing  her,  he 
asked  for  her  father  !  Not  that  it  made 
the  slightest  difference  to  her,  for  her  father 
would  have  been  sure  to  have  told  her.  It 
was  also  kind  of  her  father  to  invite  him  to 


24  BARKER'S  LUCK 

luncheon.  Otherwise  she  might  not  have 
seen  him  before  he  left  Boomville. 

But  this  was  more  than  Barker  could 
stand.  With  the  same  desperate  directness 
and  simplicity  with  which  he  had  approached 
her  father,  he  now  blurted  out  his  whole 
heart  to  her.  He  told  her  how  he  had  loved 
her  hopelessly  from  the  first  time  that  they 
had  spoken  together  at  the  church  picnic. 
Did  she  remember  it?  How  he  had  sat 
and  worshiped  her,  and  nothing  else,  at 
church  !  How  her  voice  in  the  church  choir 
had  sounded  like  an  angel's ;  how  his  pov- 
erty and  his  uncertain  future  had  kept  him 
from  seeing  her  often,  lest  he  should  be 
tempted  to  betray  his  hopeless  passion. 
How  as  soon  as  he  realized  that  he  had  a 
position,  that  his  love  for  her  need  not  make 
her  ridiculous  to  the  world's  eyes,  he  came 
to  tell  her  a/7.  He  did  not  even  dare  to 
hope  I  But  she  would  hear  him  at  least, 
would  she  not  ? 

Indeed,  there  was  no  getting  away  from 
his  boyish,  simple,  outspoken  declaration. 
In  vain  Kitty  smiled,  frowned,  glanced  at 
her  pink  cheeks  in  the  glass,  and  stopped  to 
look  out  of  the  window.  The  room  was 
filled  with  his  love  —  it  was  encompassing 


BASKETS  LUCK.  25 

her  —  and,  despite  his  shy  attitude,  seemed 
to  be  almost  embracing  her.  But  she 
managed  at  last  to  turn  upon  him  a  face 
that  was  now  as  white  and  grave  as  his  own 
was  eager  and  glowing. 

"  Sit  down,"  she  said  gently. 

He  did  so  obediently,  but  wonderingly. 
She  then  opened  the  piano  and  took  a  seat 
upon  the  music  stool  before  it,  placed  some 
loose  sheets  of  music  in  the  rack,  and  ran 
her  fingers  lightly  over  the  keys.  Thus 
intrenched,  she  let  her  hands  fall  idly  in  her 
lap,  and  for  the  first  time  raised  her  eyes  to 
his. 

"  Now  listen  to  me  —  be  good  and  don't 
interrupt !  There !  —  not  so  near ;  you  can 
hear  what  I  have  to  say  well  enough  where 
you  are.  That  will  do." 

Barker  had  halted  with  the  chair  he  was 
dragging  towards  her  and  sat  down. 

"Now,"  said  Miss  Kitty,  withdrawing  her 
eyes  and  looking  straight  before  her,  '*  I  be- 
lieve everything  you  say;  perhaps  I  ought  n't 
to  —  or  at  least  say  it  —  but  I  do.  There ! 
But  because  I  do  believe  you  —  it  seems  to 
me  all  wrong !  For  the  very  reasons  that 
you  give  for  not  having  spoken  to  me  be- 
fore, if  you  really  felt  as  you  say  you  did, 


26  BABKER'S  LUCK 

are  the  same  reasons  why  you  should  not 
speak  to  me  now.  You  see,  all  this  time 
you  have  let  nobody  but  yourself  know  how 
you  felt  towards  me.  In  everybody's  eyes 
you  and  your  partners  have  been  only  the 
three  stuck-up,  exclusive,  college-bred  men 
who  mined  a  poor  claim  in  the  Gulch,  and 
occasionally  came  here  to  this  hotel  as  cus- 
tomers. In  everybody's  eyes  I  have  been 
only  the  rich  hotel  keeper's  popular  daugh- 
ter, who  sometimes  waited  upon  you  —  but 
nothing  more.  But  at  least  we  were  then, 
pretty  much  alike,  and  as  good  as  each  other. 
And  now,  as  soon  as  you  have  become  sud- 
denly rich,  and,  of  course,  the  superior,  you 
rush  down  here  to  ask  me  to  acknowledge  it 
by  accepting  you !  " 

u  You  know  I  never  meant  that,  Miss 
Kitty,"  burst  out  Barker  vehemently,  but 
his  protest  was  drowned  in  a  rapid  roulade 
from  the  young  lady's  fingers  on  the  keys. 
He  sank  back  in  his  chair. 

"  Of  course  you  never  meant  it,"  she  said 
with  an  odd  laugh  ;  but  everybody  will  take 
it  in  that  way,  and  you  cannot  go  round  to 
everybody  in  Boomville  and  make  the  pretty 
declaration  you  have  just  made  to  me. 
Everybody  will  say  I  accepted  you  for  your 


BAREEB'S  LUCK  27 

money  ;  everybody  will  say  it  was  a  put-up 
job  of  my  father's.  Everybody  will  say 
that  you  threw  yourself  away  on  me.  And 
I  don't  know  but  that  they  would  be  right. 
Sit  down,  please !  or  I  shall  play  again." 

"  You  see,"  she  went  on,  without  looking 
at  him ;  "  just  now  you  like  to  remember 
that  you  fell  in  love  with  me  first  as  a  pretty 
waiter  girl,  but  if  I  became  your  wife  it 's 
just  what  you  would  like  to  forget.  And  / 
should  n't,  for  I  should  always  like  to  think 
of  the  time  when  you  came  here,  whenever 
you  could  afford  it,  and  sometimes  when 
you  could  n't,  just  to  see  me  ;  and  how  we 
used  to  make  excuses  to  speak  with  each 
other  over  the  dishes.  You  don't  know  what 
these  things  mean  to  a  woman  who  "  —  she 
hesitated  a  moment,  and  then  added  ab- 
ruptly, "  but  what  does  that  matter  ?  You 
would  not  care  to  be  reminded  of  it.  So," 
she  said,  rising  up  with  a  grave  smile  and 
grasping  her  hands  tightly  behind  her,  "  it 's 
a  good  deal  better  that  you  should  begin  to 
forget  it  now.  Be  a  good  boy  and  take  my 
advice.  Go  to  San  Francisco.  You  will 
meet  some  girl  there  in  a  way  you  will  not 
afterwards  regret.  You  are  young,  and 
your  riches,  to  say  nothing,"  she  added  in  a 


28  BARKER'S  LUCK. 

faltering  voice  that  was  somewhat  inconsis- 
tent with  the  mischievous  smile  that  played 
upon  her  lips,  "  of  your  kind  and  simple 
heart,  will  secure  that  which  the  world  would 
call  unselfish  affection  from  one  more  equal 
to  you,  but  would  always  believe  was  only 
bought  if  it  came  from  me." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  right,"  he  said  simply. 

She  glanced  quickly  at  him,  and  her  eye- 
brows straightened.  He  had  risen,  his  face 
white  and  his  gray  eyes  widely  opened.  "  I 
suppose  you  are  right,"  he  went  on,  "be- 
cause you  are  saying  to  me  what  my  part- 
ners said  to  me  this  morning,  when  I  offered 
to  share  my  wealth  with  them,  God  knows 
as  honestly  as  I  offered  to  share  my  heart 
with  you.  I  suppose  that  you  are  both 
right ;  that  there  must  be  some  curse  of 
pride  or  selfishness  upon  the  money  that  I 
have  got;  but  /  have  not  felt  it  yet,  and 
the  fault  does  not  lie  with  me." 

She  gave  her  shoulders  a  slight  shrug, 
and  turned  impatiently  towards  the  window. 
When  she  turned  back  again  he  was  gone. 
The  room  around  her  was  empty  ;  this  room, 
which  a  moment  before  had  seemed  to  be 
pulsating  with  his  boyish  passion,  was  now 
empty,  and  empty  of  him.  She  bit  her  iips, 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  29 

4 

rose,  and  ran  eagerly  to  the  window.  She 
saw  his  straw  hat  and  brown  curls  as  he 
crossed  the  road.  She  drew  her  handker- 
chief sharply  away  from  the  withered  shrub 
over  which  she  had  thrown  it,  and  cast  the 
once  treasured  remains  in  the  hearth.  Then, 
possibly  because  she  had  it  ready  in  her 
hand,  she  clapped  the  handkerchief  to  her 
eyes,  and,  sinking  sideways  upon  the  chair 
he  had  risen  from,  put  her  elbows  on  its 
back,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

It  is  the  characteristic  and  perhaps  cruelty 
of  a  simple  nature  to  make  no  allowance 
for  complex  motives,  or  to  even  understand 
them!  So  it  seemed  to  Barker  that  his 
simplicity  had  been  met  with  equal  direct- 
ness. It  was  the  possession  of  this  wealth 
that  had  in  some  way  hopelessly  changed 
his  relations  with  the  world.  He  did  not 
love  Kitty  any  the  less  ;  he  did  not  even 
think  she  had  wronged  him ;  they,  his  part- 
ners and  his  sweetheart,  were  cleverer  than 
he ;  there  must  be  some  occult  quality  in 
this  wealth  that  he  would  understand  when 
he  possessed  it,  and  perhaps  it  might  even 
make  him  ashamed  of  his  generosity;  not 
in  the  way  they  had  said,  but  in  his  tempt- 
ing them  so  audaciously  to  assume  a  wrong 


80  BARKER'S  LUCK 

position.  It  behoved  him  to  take  possession 
of  it  at  once,  and  to  take  also  upon  himself 
alone  the  knowledge,  the  trials,  and  responsi- 
bilities it  would  incur.  His  cheeks  flushed 
again  as  he  thought  he  had  tried  to  tempt 
an  innocent  girl  with  it,  and  he  was  keenly 
hurt  that  he  had  not  seen  in  Kitty's  eyes 
the  tenderness  that  had  softened  his  part- 
ners' refusal.  He  resolved  to  wait  no  longer, 
but  sell  his  dreadful  stock  at  once.  He 
walked  directly  to  the  bank. 

The  manager,  a  shrewd  but  kindly  man, 
to  whom  Barker  was  known  already,  re- 
ceived him  graciously  in  recognition  of  his 
well-known  simple  honesty,  and  respectfully 
as  a  representative  of  the  equally  well-known 
poor  but  "  superior "  partnership  of  the 
Gulch.  He  listened  with  marked  attention 
to  Barker's  hesitating  out  brief  story,  only 
remarking  at  its  close :  — 

"  You  mean,  of  course,  the  '  Second  Ex- 
tension '  when  you  say  '  First '  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Barker ;  "  I  mean  the  '  First 5 
—  and  it  said  First  in  the  Bloomville  pa- 
per." 

"  Yes,  yes !  —  I  saw  it  —  it  was  a  printer's 
error.  The  stock  of  the  '  First '  was  called 
in  two  years  ago.  No!  You  mean  the 
Bret  Harte  1— V.  6 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  31 

'  Second,'  for,  of  course,  you  've  followed 
the  quotations,  and  are  likely  to  know  what 
stock  you  're  holding  shares  of.  When  you 
go  back,  take  a  look  at  them,  and  you  '11  see 
I  am  right." 

"  But  I  brought  them  with  me,"  said  Bar- 
ker, with  a  slight  flushing  as  he  felt  in  his 
pocket,  "  and  I  am  quite  sure  they  are  the 
4  First.' "  He  brought  them  out  and  laid 
them  on  the  desk  before  the  manager. 

The  words  "First  Extension"  were 
plainly  visible.  The  manager  glanced  cu- 
riously at  Barker,  and  his  brow  darkened. 

"  Did  anybody  put  this  up  on  you  ?  "  he 
said  sternly.  "  Did  your  partners  send  you 
here  with  this  stuff  ?  " 

"  No  !  no !  "  said  Barker  eagerly.  "  No 
one!  It's  all  my  mistake.  I  see  it  now. 
I  trusted  to  the  newspaper." 

"  And  you  mean  to  say  you  never  exam- 
ined the  stock  or  the  quotations,  nor  fol- 
lowed it  in  any  way,  since  you  had  it  ?  " 

"  Never  !  "  said  Barker.  "  Never  thought 
about  it  at  all  till  I  saw  the  newspaper.  So 
it's  not  worth  anything?"  And,  to  the  in- 
finite surprise  of  the  manager,  there  was  a 
slight  smile  on  his  boyish  face. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  not  worth  the  paper  it 's 
written  on,"  said  the  manager  gently. 
Bret  Harte  2— V.  6 


32  BARKER'S  LUCK 

The  smile  on  Barker's  face  increased  to  a 
little  laugh,  in  which  his  wondering  compan- 
ion could  not  help  joining.  "  Thank  you," 
said  Barker  suddenly,  and  rushed  away. 

"  He  beats  everything ! "  said  the  manager, 
gazing  after  him.  "  D — d  if  he  did  n't  seem 
even  pleased" 

He  was  pleased.  The  burden  of  wealth 
had  fallen  from  his  shoulders ;  the  dreadful 
incubus  that  had  weighed  him  down  and 
parted  his  friends  from  him  was  gone !  And 
he  had  not  got  rid  of  it  by  spending  it  fool- 
ishly. It  had  not  ruined  anybody  yet ;  it 
had  not  altered  anybody  in  his  eyes.  It 
was  gone :  and  he  was  a  free  and  happy 
man  once  more.  He  would  go  directly  back 
to  his  partners ;  they  would  laugh  at  him, 
of  course,  but  they  could  not  look  at  him 
now  with  the  same  sad,  commiserating  eyes. 
Perhaps  even  Kitty  —  but  here  a  sudden 
chill  struck  him.  He  had  forgotten  the  bill 
of  sale !  He  had  forgotten  the  dreadful 
promissory  note  given  to  her  father  in  the 
rash  presumption  of  his  wealth  !  How  could 
it  ever  be  paid?  And  more  than  that,  it 
had  been  given  in  a  fraud.  He  had  no 
money  when  he  gave  it,  and  no  prospect  of 
any  but  what  he  was  to  get  from  those 


LUCK. 

worthless  shares.  Would  anybody  believe 
him  that  it  was  only  a  stupid  blunder  of  his 
own  ?  Yes,  his  partners  might  believe  him ; 
but,  horrible  thought,  he  had  already  impli- 
cated them  in  his  fraud  !  Even  now,  while 
he  was  standing  there  hesitatingly  in  the 
road,  they  were  entering  upon  the  new  claim 
he  had  not  paid  for  —  could  not  pay  for  — 
and  in  the  guise  of  a  benefactor  he  was  dis- 
honoring them.  Yet  it  was  Carter  he  must 
meet  first ;  he  must  confess  all  to  him.  He 
must  go  back  to  the  hotel  —  that  hotel 
where  he  had  indignantly  left  her,  and  tell 
the  father  he  was  a  fraud.  It  was  terrible 
to  think  of ;  perhaps  it  was  part  of  that 
money  curse  that  he  could  not  get  rid  of, 
and  was  now  realizing  ;  but  it  must  be  done. 
He  was  simple,  but  his  very  simplicity  had 
that  unhesitating  directness  of  conclusion 
which  is  the  main  factor  of  what  men  call 
"  pluck." 

He  turned  back  to  the  hotel  and  entered 
the  office.  But  Mr.  Carter  had  not  yet  re- 
turned. What  was  to  be  done  ?  He  could 
not  wait  there ;  there  was  no  time  to  be  lost ; 
there  was  only  one  other  person  who  knew 
his  expectations,  and  to  whom  he  could  con- 
fide his  failure  —  it  was  Kitty.  It  was  to 


34:  BARKER'S  LUCK. 

taste  the  dregs  of  his  humiliation,  but  it 
must  be  done.  He  ran  up  the  staircase  and 
knocked  timidly  at  the  sitting-room  door. 
There  was  a  momentary  pause,  and  a  weak 
voice  said  "  Come  in."  Barker  opened  the 
door;  saw  the  vision  of  a  handkerchief 
thrown  away,  of  a  pair  of  tearful  eyes  that 
suddenly  changed  to  stony  indifference,  and 
a  graceful  but  stiffening  figure.  But  he  was 
past  all  insult  now. 

"  I  would  not  intrude,"  he  said  simply, 
"  but  I  came  only  to  see  your  father.  I  have 
made  an  awful  blunder  —  more  than  a  blun- 
der, I  think  —  a  fraud.  Believing  that  I 
was  rich,  I  purchased  your  father's  claim  for 
my  partners,  and  gave  him  my  promissory 
note.  I  came  here  to  give  him  back  his 
claim  —  for  that  note  can  never  be  paid  !  I 
have  just  been  to  the  bank ;  I  find  I  have 
made  a  stupid  mistake  in  the  name  of  the 
shares  upon  which  I  based  my  belief  in  my 
wealth.  The  ones  I  own  are  worthless  —  I 
am  as  poor  as  ever  —  I  am  even  poorer,  for 
I  owe  your  father  money  I  can  never  pay  ! " 

To  his  amazement  he  saw  a  look  of  pain 
and  scorn  come  into  her  troubled  eyes  which 
he  had  never  seen  before.  "  This  is  a  feeble 
trick,"  she  said  bitterly ;  "  it  is  unlike  you 
—  it  is  unworthy  of  you  1  " 


BARKER'S  LUCK  35 

"  Good  God  !  You  must  believe  me.  Lis- 
ten !  It  was  all  a  mistake  —  a  printer's  er- 
ror. I  read  in  the  paper  that  the  stock  for 
the  First  Extension  mine  had  gone  up,  when 
it  should  have  been  the  Second.  I  had  some 
old  stock  of  the  First,  which  I  had  kept  for 
years,  and  only  thought  of  when  I  read  the 
announcement  in  the  paper  this  morning. 
I  swear  to  you  "  — 

But  it  was  unnecessary.  There  was  no 
doubting  the  truth  of  that  voice  —  that  man- 
ner. The  scorn  fled  from  Miss  Kitty's  eyes 
to  give  place  to  a  stare,  and  then  suddenly 
changed  to  two  bubbling  blue  wells  of  laugh- 
ter. She  went  to  the  window  and  laughed. 
She  sat  down  to  the  piano  and  laughed. 
She  caught  up  the  handkerchief,  and  hiding 
half  her  rosy  face  in  it,  laughed.  She  finally 
collapsed  into  an  easy -chair,  and,  bury- 
ing her  brown  head  in  its  cushions,  laughed 
long  and  confidentially  until  she  brought  up 
suddenly  against  a  sob.  And  then  was  still. 

Barker  was  dreadfully  alarmed.  He  had 
heard  of  hysterics  before.  He  felt  he  ought 
to  do  something.  He  moved  towards  her 
timidly,  and  gently  drew  away  her  handker- 
chief. Alas !  the  blue  wells  were  running 
over  now.  He  took  her  cold  hands  in  his ; 


36  BARKER'S  LUCK. 

he  knelt  beside  her  and  passed  his  arm 
around  her  waist.  He  drew  her  head  upon 
his  shoulders.  He  was  not  sure  that  any  of 
these  things  were  effective  until  she  suddenly 
lifted  her  eyes  to  his  with  the  last  ray  of 
mirth  in  them  vanishing  in  a  big  tear-drop, 
put  her  arms  round  his  neck,  and  sobbed : 

"  Oh,  George  !     You  blessed  innocent !  " 

An  eloquent  silence  was  broken  by  a  re- 
morseful start  from  Barker. 

"  But  I  must  go  and  warn  my  poor  part- 
ners, dearest ;  there  yet  may  be  time ;  per- 
haps they  have  not  yet  taken  possession  of 
your  father's  claim." 

"  Yes,  George  dear,"  said  the  young  girl, 
with  sparkling  eyes ;  "  and  tell  them  to  dfl 
so  at  once  1 " 

"What?"  gasped  Barker. 

"  At  once  —  do  you  hear  ?  —  or  it  may  hj 
too  late  I  Go  quick." 

"  But  your  father  • —  Oh,  I  see,  dearest, 
you  will  tell  him  all  yourself,  and  spare 
me." 

"  I  shall  do  nothing  so  foolish,  Georgey. 
Nor  shall  you !  Don't  you  see  the  note  is  n't 
due  for  a  month.  Stop!  Have  you  told 
anybody  but  Paw  and  me  ?  " 

"  Only  the  bank  manager." 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  37 

She  ran  out  of  the  room  and  returned  in 
a  minute  tying  the  most  enchanting  of  hats 
by  a  ribbon  under  her  oval  chin.  "  I  '11  run 
over  and  fix  him,"  she  said. 

"  Fix  him  ?  "  returned  Barker,  aghast. 

"  Yes,  I  '11  say  your  wicked  partners  have 
been  playing  a  practical  joke  on  you,  and 
he  must  n't  give  you  away.  He  '11  do  any- 
thing for  me." 

"  But  my  partners  did  n't !  On  the  con- 
trary "  — 

"  Don't  tell  me,  George,"  said  Miss  Kitty 
severely.  "They  ought  never  to  have  let 
you  come  here  with  that  stuff.  But  come ! 
You  must  go  at  once.  You  must  not  meet 
Paw ;  you  '11  blurt  out  everything  to  him ; 
I  know  you  !  I  '11  tell  him  you  could  not 
stay  to  luncheon.  Quick,  now ;  go.  What  ?  , 
Well— there!" 

Whatever  it  represented,  the  exclamation 
tvas  apparently  so  protracted  that  Miss  Kitty 
was  obliged  to  push  her  lover  to  the  front 
landing  before  she  could  disappear  by  the 
back  stairs.  But,  once  in  the  street,  Barker 
no  longer  lingered.  It  was  a  good  three 
miles  back  to  the  Gulch ;  he  might  still 
reach  it  by  the  time  his  partners  were  tak- 
ing their  noonday  rest,  and  he  resolved  that, 


38  BABKER'S  LUCK. 

although  the  messenger  had  preceded  him, 
they  would  not  enter  upon  the  new  claim 
until  the  afternoon.  For  Barker,  in  spite 
of  his  mistress's  injunction,  had  no  idea  of 
taking  what  he  could  n't  pay  for ;  he  would 
keep  the  claim  intact  until  something  could 
be  settled.  For  the  rest,  he  walked  on  air  ! 
Kitty  loved  him !  The  accursed  wealth  no 
longer  stood  between  them.  They  were 
both  poor  now  —  everything  was  possible. 

The  sun  was  beginning  to  send  dwarf 
shadows  towards  the  east  when  he  reached 
the  Gulch.  Here  a  new  trepidation  seized 
him.  How  would  his  partners  receive  the 
news  of  his  utter  failure  ?  He  was  happy, 
for  he  had  gained  Kitty  through  it.  But 
they  ?  For  a  moment  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  purchased  his  happiness  through 
their  loss.  He  stopped,  took  off  his  hat, 
and  ran  his  fingers  remorsefully  through  his 
damp  curls. 

Another  thing  troubled  him.  He  had 
reached  the  crest  of  the  Gulch,  where  their 
old  working  ground  was  spread  before  him 
like  a  map.  They  were  not  there ;  neither 
were  they  lying  under  the  four  pines  on  the 
ridge  where  they  were  wont  to  rest  at  mid- 
day. He  turned  with  some  alarm  to  the 


BARKER'S  LUCK  39 

new  claim  adjoining  theirs,  but  there  was  no 
sign  of  them  there  either.  A  sudden  fear 
that  they  had,  after  parting  from  him,  given 
up  the  claim  in  a  fit  of  disgust  and  depres- 
sion, and  departed,  now  overcame  him.  He 
clapped  his  hand  on  his  head  and  ran  in  the 
direction  of  the  cabin. 

He  had  nearly  reached  it  when  the  rough 
challenge  of  "Who's  there?"  from  the 
bushes  halted  him,  and  Demorest  suddenly 
swung  into  the  trail.  But  the  singular  look 
of  sternness  and  impatience  which  he  was 
wearing  vanished  as  he  saw  Barker,  and 
with  a  loud  shout  of  "All  right,  it's  only 
Barker !  Hooray  !  "  he  ran  towards  him. 
In  an  instant  he  was  joined  by  Stacy  from 
the  cabin,  and  the  two  men,  catching  hold 
of  their  returning  partner,  waltzed  him  joy- 
fully and  breathlessly  into  the  cabin.  But 
the  quick-eyed  Demorest  suddenly  let  go  his 
hold  and  stared  at  Barker's  face.  "  Why, 
Barker,  old  boy,  what 's  up  ?  " 

"  Everything  's  up,"  gasped  the  breathless 
Barker.  "It's  all  up  about  these  stocks. 
It 's  all  a  mistake ;  all  an  infernal  lie  of  that 
newspaper.  I  never  had  the  right  kind 
of  shares.  The  ones  I  have  are  worthless 
rags ; "  and  the  next  instant  he  had  blurted 


40  BARKER'S  LUCK 

out  his  whole  interview  with  the  bank  man- 
ager. 

The  two  partners  looked  at  each  other, 
and  then,  to  Barker's  infinite  perplexity, 
the  same  extraordinary  convulsion  that  had 
seized  Miss  Kitty  fell  upon  them.  They 
laughed,  holding  on  each  other's  shoulders  ; 
they  laughed,  clinging  to  Barker's  strug- 
gling figure ;  they  went  out  and  laughed 
with  their  backs  against  a  tree.  They 
laughed  separately  and  in  different  corners. 
And  then  they  came  up  to  Barker  with  tears 
in  their  eyes,  dropped  their  heads  on  his 
shoulder,  and  murmured  exhaustedly :  — 

"  You  blessed  ass  1 " 

"  But,"  said  Stacy  suddenly,  "  how  did  you 
manage  to  buy  the  claim  ?  " 

"  Ah !  that 's  the  most  awful  thing,  boys. 
I  Ve  never  paid  for  it"  groaned  Barker. 

"But  Carter  sent  us  the  bill  of  sale," 
persisted  Demorest,  "  or  we  should  n't  have 
taken  it." 

"  I  gave  my  promissory  note  at  thirty 
days,"  said  Barker  desperately,  "  and 
where  's  the  money  to  come  from  now? 
But,"  he  added  wildly,  as  the  men  glanced 
at  each  other  —  "  you  said  *  taken  it.'  Good 
heavens !  you  don't  mean  to  say  that  I  'm 


BARKER'S  LUCK.  41 

too  late  —  that  you  've  —  you  've  touched 
it?" 

"  I  reckon  that 's  pretty  much  what  we 
have  been  doing,"  drawled  Demorest. 

"  It  looks  uncommonly  like  it,"  drawled 
Stacy. 

Barker  glanced  blankly  from  the  one  to 
the  other.  "  Shall  we  pass  our  young  friend 
in  to  see  the  show?"  said  Demorest  to 
Stacy. 

"  Yes,  if  he  '11  be  perfectly  quiet  and  not 
breathe  on  the  glasses,"  returned  Stacy. 

They  each  gravely  took  one  of  Barker's 
hands  and  led  him  to  the  corner  of  the 
cabin.  There,  on  an  old  flour  barrel,  stood 
a  large  tin  prospecting  pan,  in  which  the 
partners  also  occasionally  used  to  knead 
their  bread.  A  dirty  towel  covered  it.  Dem- 
orest whisked  it  dexterously  aside,  and 
disclosed  three  large  fragments  of  decom- 
posed gold  and  quartz.  Barker  started 
back. 

"  Heft  it !  "  said  Demorest  grimly. 

Barker  could  scarcely  lift  the  pan ! 

"  Four  thousand  dollars'  weight  if  a 
penny !  "  said  Stacy,  in  short  staccato  sen- 
tences. "  In  a  pocket !  Brought  it  out  the 
second  stroke  of  the  pick !  We  'd  been  aw- 


42  BARKER'S  LUCK. 

fully  blue  after  you  left.  Awfully  blue,  too, 
when  that  bill  of  sale  came,  for  we  thought 
you  'd  been  wasting  your  money  on  us. 
Reckoned  we  ought  n't  to  take  it,  but  send 
it  straight  back  to  you.  Messenger  gone ! 
Then  Demorest  reckoned  as  it  was  done  it 
could  n't  be  undone,  and  we  ought  to  make 
just  one  '  prospect '  on  the  claim,  and  strike 
a  single  stroke  for  you.  And  there  it  is. 
And  there 's  more  on  the  hillside." 

"  But  it  is  n't  mine  !  It  is  n't  yours  ! 
It's  Carter's.  I  never  had  the  money  to 
pay  for  it  —  and  I  have  n't  got  it  now." 

"  But  you  gave  the  note  —  and  it  is  not 
due  for  thirty  days." 

A  recollection  flashed  upon  Barker. 
"Yes,"  he  said  with  thoughtful  simplicity, 
"  that 's  what  Kitty  said." 

"  Oh,  Kitty  said  so,"  said  both  partners, 
gravely. 

"  Yes,"  stammered  Barker,  turning  away 
with  a  heightened  color,  "  and,  as  I  did  n't 
stay  there  to  luncheon,  I  think  I  'd  better 
be  getting  it  ready."  He  picked  up  the 
coffee-pot  and  turned  to  the  hearth  as  his 
two  partners  stepped  beyond  the  door. 

"  Was  n't  it  exactly  like  him  ?  "  said  Dem- 
orest. 


BARKEB'S  LUCK.  43 

"  Him  all  over,"  said  Stacy. 

"  And  his  worry  over  that  note  ?  "  said 
Demorest. 

"  And  *  what  Kitty  said,'  "  said  Stacy. 

"  Look  here !  I  reckon  that  was  n't  all 
that  Kitty  said." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"What  luck  1" 


A  YELLOW  DOG. 

I  NEVER  knew  why  in  the  Western  States 
of  America  a  yellow  dog  should  be  prover- 
bially considered  the  acme  of  canine  degra- 
dation and  incompetency,  nor  why  the  pos- 
session of  one  should  seriously  affect  the 
social  standing  of  its  possessor.  But  the 
fact  being  established,  I  think  we  accepted 
it  at  Rattlers  Ridge  without  question.  The 
matter  of  ownership  was  more  difficult  to 
settle ;  and  although  the  dog  I  have  in  my 
mind  at  the  present  writing  attached  him- 
self impartially  and  equally  to  every  one  in 
camp,  no  one  ventured  to  exclusively  claim 
him ;  while,  after  the  perpetration  of  any 
canine  atrocity,  everybody  repudiated  him 
with  indecent  haste. 

"  Well,  I  can  swear  he  has  n't  been  near 
our  shanty  for  weeks,"  or  the  retort,  "  He 
was  last  seen  comin'  out  of  your  cabin,"  ex- 
pressed the  eagerness  with  which  Rattlers 
Ridge  washed  its  hands  of  any  responsi- 
bility. Yet  he  was  by  no  means  a  common 


A  YELLOW  DOG.  45 

dog,  nor  even  an  unhandsome  dog ;  and  it 
was  a  singular  fact  that  his  severest  critics 
vied  with  each  other  in  narrating  instances 
of  his  sagacity,  insight,  and  agility  which 
they  themselves  had  witnessed. 

He  had  been  seen  crossing  the  "  flume  " 
that  spanned  Grizzly  Canon,  at  a  height  of 
nine  hundred  feet,  on  a  plank  six  inches 
wide.  He  had  tumbled  down  the  "  shoot "  to 
the  South  Fork,  a  thousand  feet  below,  and 
was  found  sitting  on  the  river  bank  "  with- 
out a  scratch,  'cept  that  he  was  lazily  givin' 
himself  with  his  off  hind  paw."  He  had 
been  forgotten  in  a  snowdrift  on  a  Sierran 
shelf,  and  had  come  home  in  the  early  spring 
with  the  conceited  complacency  of  an  Alpine 
traveler  and  a  plumpness  alleged  to  have 
been  the  result  of  an  exclusive  diet  of  buried 
mail  bags  and  their  contents.  He  was  gen- 
erally believed  to  read  the  advance  election 
posters,  and  disappear  a  day  or  two  before 
the  candidates  and  the  brass  band  —  which 
he  hated  —  came  to  the  Ridge.  He  was 
suspected  of  having  overlooked  Colonel 
Johnson's  hand  at  poker,  and  of  having 
conveyed  to  the  Colonel's  adversary,  by  a 
succession  of  barks,  the  danger  of  betting 
against  four  kings. 


46  A  YELLOW  DOG. 

While  these  statements  were  supplied  by 
wholly  unsupported  witnesses,  it  was  a  very 
human  weakness  of  Rattlers  Ridge  that  the 
responsibility  of  corroboration  was  passed  to 
the  dog  himself,  and  he  was  looked  upon  as 
a  consummate  liar. 

"  Snoopin'  round  yere,  and  callin1  yourself 
a  poker  sharp,  are  ye !  Scoot,  you  yaller 
pizin !  "  was  a  common  adjuration  whenever 
the  unfortunate  animal  intruded  upon  a 
card  party.  "  Ef  thar  was  a  spark,  an  atom 
of  truth  in  that  dog,  I  'd  believe  my  own 
eyes  that  I  saw  him  sittin'  up  and  trying 
to  magnetize  a  jay  bird  off  a  tree.  But  wot 
are  ye  goin'  to  do  with  a  yaller  equivocator 
like  that?" 

I  have  said  that  he  was  yellow  —  or,  to 
use  the  ordinary  expression,  "  yaller."  In- 
deed, I  am  inclined  to  believe  that  much  of 
the  ignominy  attached  to  the  epithet  lay  in 
this  favorite  pronunciation.  Men  who  ha- 
bitually spoke  of  a  "  yellow  bird,"  a  "  yellow 
hammer,"  a  "  yellow  leaf,"  always  alluded  to 
him  as  a  "  yaller  dog." 

He  certainly  was  yellow.  After  a  bath  — 
usually  compulsory  —  he  presented  a  decided 
gamboge  streak  down  his  back,  from  the  top 
of  his  forehead  to  the  stump  of  his  tail,  fading 


A  YELLOW  DOG.  47 

in  his  sides  and  flank  to  a  delicate  straw 
color.  His  breast,  legs,  and  feet  —  when 
not  reddened  by  "  slumgullion,"  in  which  he 
was  fond  of  wading  —  were  white.  A  few 
attempts  at  ornamental  decoration  from  the 
India-ink  pot  of  the  storekeeper  failed, 
partly  through  the  yellow's  dog's  excessive 
agility,  which  would  never  give  the  paint 
time  to  dry  on  him,  and  partly  through  his 
success  in  transferring  his  markings  to  the 
trousers  and  blankets  of  the  camp. 

The  size  and  shape  of  his  tail  —  which  had 
been  cut  off  before  his  introduction  to  Rat- 
tlers Ridge  —  were  favorite  sources  of  specu- 
lation to  the  miners,  both  as  determining  his 
breed  and  his  moral  responsibility  in  coming 
into  camp  in  that  defective  condition.  There 
was  a  general  opinion  that  he  could  n't  have 
looked  worse  with  a  tail,  and  its  removal 
was  therefore  a  gratuitous  effrontery. 

His  best  feature  was  his  eyes,  which  were 
a  lustrous  Vandyke  brown,  and  sparkling 
with  intelligence ;  but  here  again  he  suffered 
from  evolution  through  environment,  and 
their  original  trustful  openness  was  marred 
by  the  experience  of  watching  for  flying 
stones,  sods,  and  passing  kicks  from  the 
rear,  so  that  the  pupils  were  continually  re- 
verting to  the  outer  angle  of  the  eyelid. 


48  A   YELLOW  DOG. 

Nevertheless,  none  of  these  characteristics 
decided  the  vexed  question  of  his  breed. 
His  speed  and  scent  pointed  to  a  "  hound," 
and  it  is  related  that  on  one  occasion  he 
was  laid  on  the  trail  of  a  wildcat  with  such 
success  that  he  followed  it  apparently  out  of 
the  State,  returning  at  the  end  of  two  weeks, 
footsore,  but  blandly  contented. 

Attaching  himself  to  a  prospecting  party, 
he  was  sent  under  the  same  belief  "  into  the 
brush"  to  drive  off  a  bear,  who  was  supposed 
to  be  haunting  the  camp  fire.  He  returned 
in  a  few  minutes  with  the  bear,  driving  it 
into  the  unarmed  circle  and  scattering  the 
whole  party.  After  this  the  theory  of  his 
being  a  hunting  dog  was  abandoned.  Yet  it 
was  said  —  on  the  usual  uncorroborated  evi- 
dence —  that  he  had  "  put  up  "  a  quail ;  and 
his  qualities  as  a  retriever  were  for  a  long 
time  accepted,  until,  during  a  shooting  ex- 
pedition for  wild  ducks,  it  was  discovered 
that  the  one  he  had  brought  back  had  never 
been  shot,  and  the  party  were  obliged  to 
compound  damages  with  an  adjacent  set- 
tler. 

His  fondness  for  paddling  in  the  ditches 
and  "  slumgullion  "  at  one  time  suggested  a 
Vater  spaniel.  He  could  swim,  and  would 


A    YELLOW  DOG.  49 

occasionally  bring  out  of  the  river  sticks  and 
pieces  of  bark  that  had  been  thrown  in ; 
but  as  he  always  had  to  be  thrown  in  with 
them,  and  was  a  good-sized  dog,  his  aquatic 
reputation  faded  also.  He  remained  simply 
"  a  yaller  dog."  What  more  could  be  said  ? 
His  actual  name  was  "  Bones  "  —  given  to 
him,  no  doubt,  through  the  provincial  cus- 
tom of  confounding  the  occupation  of  the 
individual  with  his  quality,  for  which  it  was 
pointed  out  precedent  could  be  found  in  some 
old  English  family  names. 

But  if  Bones  generally  exhibited  no  pre- 
ference for  any  particular  individual  in 
camp,  he  always  made  an  exception  in  favor 
of  drunkards.  Even  an  ordinary  roystering 
bacchanalian  party  brought  him  out  from 
under  a  tree  or  a  shed  in  the  keenest  satis- 
faction. He  would  accompany  them  through 
the  long  straggling  street  of  the  settlement, 
barking  his  delight  at  every  step  or  mis-step 
of  the  revelers,  and  exhibiting  none  of  that 
mistrust  of  eye  which  marked  his  attendance 
upon  the  sane  and  the  respectable.  He  ac- 
cepted even  their  uncouth  play  without  a 
snarl  or  a  yelp,  hypocritically  pretending 
even  to  like  it ;  and  I  conscientiously  be- 
lieve would  have  allowed  a  tin  can  to  be 


50  A   YELLOW  DOG. 

attached  to  his  tail  if  the  hand  that  tied  it 
on  were  only  unsteady,  and  the  voice  that 
bade  him  "lie  still"  were  husky  with  liquor. 
He  would  "  see  "  the  party  cheerfully  into  a 
saloon,  wait  outside  the  door  —  his  tongue 
fairly  lolling  from  his  mouth  in  enjoyment 
—  until  they  reappeared,  permit  them  even 
to  tumble  over  him  with  pleasure,  and  then 
gambol  away  before  them,  heedless  of  awk- 
wardly projected  stones  and  epithets.  He 
would  afterwards  accompany  them  separately 
home,  or  lie  with  them  at  cross  roads  until 
they  were  assisted  to  their  cabins.  Then  he 
would  trot  rakishly  to  his  own  haunt  by  the 
saloon  stove,  with  the  slightly  conscious  air 
of  having  been  a  bad  dog,  yet  of  having  had 
a  good  time. 

We  never  could  satisfy  ourselves  whether 
his  enjoyment  arose  from  some  merely  self- 
ish conviction  that  he  was  more  secure  with 
the  physically  and  mentally  incompetent, 
from  some  active  sympathy  with  active 
wickedness,  or  from  a  grim  sense  of  his 
own  mental  superiority  at  such  moments. 
But  the  general  belief  leant  towards  his 
kindred  sympathy  as  a  "  yaller  dog "  with 
all  that  was  disreputable.  And  this  was 
supported  by  another  very  singular  canine 


A   YELLOW  DOG.  51 

manifestation  —  the   "  sincere  flattery  "   of 
simulation  or  imitation. 

"  Uncle  Billy  "  Riley  for  a  short  time  en- 
joyed the  position  of  being  the  camp  drunk- 
ard, and  at  once  became  an  object  of  Bones' 
greatest  solicitude.  He  not  only  accom- 
panied him  everywhere,  curled  at  his  feet  or 
head  according  to  Uncle  Billy's  attitude  at 
the  moment,  but,  it  was  noticed,  began  pres- 
ently to  undergo  a  singular  alteration  in  his 
own  habits  and  appearance.  From  being 
an  active,  tireless  scout  and  forager,  a  bold 
and  unovertakable  marauder,  he  became  lazy 
and  apathetic  ;  allowed  gophers  to  burrow 
under  him  without  endeavoring  to  under- 
mine the  settlement  in  his  frantic  endeavors 
to  dig  them  out,  permitted  squirrels  to  flash 
their  tails  at  him  a  hundred  yards  away,  for- 
got his  usual  caches,  and  left  his  favorite 
bones  unburied  and  bleaching  in  the  sun. 
His  eyes  grew  dull,  his  coat  lustreless,  in 
proportion  as  his  companion  became  blear- 
eyed  and  ragged ;  in  running,  his  usual 
arrow-like  directness  began  to  deviate,  and 
it  was  not  unusual  to  meet  the  pair  to- 
gether, zig-zagging  up  the  hill.  Indeed, 
Uncle  Billy's  condition  could  be  predeter- 
mined by  Bones'  appearance  at  times  when 


52  A  YELLOW  DOG. 

his  temporary  master  was  invisible.  "  The 
old  man  must  have  an  awful  jag  on  to-day," 
was  casually  remarked  when  an  extra  fluffi- 
ness  and  imbecility  was  noticeable  in  the 
passing  Bones.  At  first  it  was  believed  that 
he  drank  also,  but  when  careful  investiga- 
tion proved  this  hypothesis  untenable,  he  was 
freely  called  a  "derned  time-servin',  yaller 
hypocrite."  Not  a  few  advanced  the  opin- 
ion that  if  Bones  did  not  actually  lead  Uncle 
Billy  astray,  he  at  least  "  slavered  him  over 
and  coddled  him  until  the  old  man  got  con- 
ceited in  his  wickedness."  This  undoubtedly 
led  to  a  compulsory  divorce  between  them, 
and  Uncle  Billy  was  happily  despatched  to 
a  neighboring  town  and  a  doctor,, 

Bones  seemed  to  miss  him  greatly,  ran 
away  for  two  days,  and  was  supposed  to 
have  visited  him,  to  have  been  shocked  at 
his  convalescence,  and  to  have  been  "cut" 
by  Uncle  Billy  in  his  reformed  character; 
and  he  returned  to  his  old  active  life  again, 
and  buried  his  past  with  his  forgotten  bones. 
It  was  said  that  he  was  afterwards  detected 
in  trying  to  lead  an  intoxicated  tramp  into 
camp  after  the  methods  employed  by  a  blind 
man's  dog,  but  was  discovered  in  time  by 
the  —  of  course  —  uncorroborated  narrator. 


A   YELLOW  DOG.  58 

I  should  be  tempted  to  leave  him  thus  in 
his  original  and  picturesque  sin,  but  the 
same  veracity  which  compelled  me  to  trans- 
cribe his  faults  and  iniquities  obliges  me  to 
describe  his  ultimate  and  somewhat  monoto- 
nous reformation,  which  came  from  no  fault 
of  his  own. 

It  was  a  joyous  day  at  Battlers  Ridge 
that  was  equally  the  advent  of  his  change 
of  heart  and  the  first  stage  coach  that  had 
been  induced  to  diverge  from  the  high  road 
and  stop  regularly  at  our  settlement.  Flags 
were  flying  from  the  post  office  and  Polka 
saloon  —  and  Bones  was  flying  before  the 
brass  band  that  he  detested,  when  the  sweet- 
est girl  in  the  county  —  Pinkey  Preston  — 
daughter  of  the  county  judge  and  hopelessly 
beloved  by  all  Rattlers  Ridge,  stepped  from 
the  coach  which  she  had  glorified  by  occupy- 
ing as  an  invited  guest. 

"What  makes  him  run  away?"  she  asked 
quickly,  opening  her  lovely  eyes  in  a  possi- 
ble innocent  wonder  that  anything  could  be 
found  to  run  away  from  her. 

"He  don't  like  the  brass  band,"  we  ex- 
plained eagerly. 

"How  funny,"  murmured  the  girl;  "is  it 
as  out  of  tune  as  all  that  ?  " 


54  A   YELLOW  DOG. 

This  irresistible  witticism  alone  would 
have  been  enough  to  satisfy  us  —  we  did 
nothing  but  repeat  it  to  each  other  all  the 
next  day  —  but  we  were  positively  trans- 
ported when  we  saw  her  suddenly  gather 
her  dainty  skirts  in  one  hand  and  trip  off 
through  the  red  dust  towards  Bones,  who, 
with  his  eyes  over  his  yellow  shoulder,  had 
halted  in  the  road,  and  half  turned  in  min- 
gled disgust  and  rage  at  the  spectacle  of  the 
descending  trombone.  We  held  our  breath 
as  she  approached  him.  Would  Bones 
evade  her  as  he  did  us  at  such  moments,  or 
would  he  save  our  reputation,  and  consent, 
for  the  moment,  to  accept  her  as  a  new  kind 
of  inebriate?  She  came  nearer;  he  saw 
her;  he  began  to  slowly  quiver  with  excite- 
ment—  his  stump  of  a  tail  vibrating  with 
such  rapidity  that  the  loss  of  the  missing 
portion  was  scarcely  noticeable.  Suddenly 
she  stopped  before  him,  took  his  yellow  head 
between  her  little  hands,  lifted  it,  and  looked 
down  in  his  handsome  brown  eyes  with  her 
two  lovely  blue  ones.  What  passed  between 
them  in  that  magnetic  glance  no  one  ever 
knew.  She  returned  with  him ;  said  to  him 
casually :  "  We  're  not  afraid  of  brass  bands, 
are  we?  "  to  which  he  apparently  acquiesced, 


A   YELLOW  DOG.  55 

at  least  stifling  his  disgust  of  them,  while  he 
was  near  her  — which  was  nearly  all  the  time. 

During  the  speech-making  her  gloved 
hand  and  his  yellow  head  were  always  near 
together,  and  at  the  crowning  ceremony  — 
her  public  checking  of  Yuba  Bill's  "way- 
bill," on  behalf  of  the  township,  with  a  gold 
pencil,  presented  to  her  by  the  Stage  Com- 
pany —  Bones'  joy,  far  from  knowing  no 
bounds,  seemed  to  know  nothing  but  them, 
and  he  witnessed  it  apparently  in  the  air. 
No  one  dared  to  interfere.  For  the  first 
time  a  local  pride  in  Bones  sprang  up  in 
our  hearts  —  and  we  lied  to  each  other  in 
his  praises  openly  and  shamelessly. 

Then  the  time  came  for  parting.  We 
were  standing  by  the  door  of  the  coach,  hats 
in  hand,  as  Miss  Pinkey  was  about  to  step 
into  it;  Bones  was  waiting  by  her  side,  con- 
fidently looking  into  the  interior,  and  appar- 
ently selecting  his  own  seat  on  the  lap  of 
Judge  Preston  in  the  corner,  when  Miss 
Pinkey  held  up  the  sweetest  of  admonitory 
fingers.  Then,  taking  his  head  between 
her  two  hands,  she  again  looked  into  his 
brimming  eyes,  and  said,  simply,  "  Good 
dog,"  with  the  gentlest  of  emphasis  on  the 
adjective,  and  popped  into  the  coach. 


56  A   YELLOW  DOG. 

The  six  bay  horses  started  as  one,  the 
gorgeous  green  and  gold  vehicle  bounded 
forward,  the  red  dust  rose  behind,  and  the 
yellow  dog  danced  in  and  out  of  it  to  the 
very  outskirts  of  the  settlement.  And  then 
he  soberly  returned. 

A  day  or  two  later  he  was  missed  —  but 
the  fact  was  afterwards  known  that  he  was 
at  Spring  Valley,  the  county  town  where 
Miss  Preston  lived  —  and  he  was  forgiven. 
A  week  afterwards  he  was  missed  again, 
but  this  time  for  a  longer  period,  and  then 
a  pathetic  letter  arrived  from  Sacramento 
for  the  storekeeper's  wife. 

"Would  you  mind,"  wrote  Miss  Pinky 
Preston,  "asking  some  of  your  boys  to  come 
over  here  to  Sacramento  and  bring  back 
Bones?  I  don't  mind  having  the  dear  dog 
walk  out  with  me  at  Spring  Valley,  where 
every  one  knows  me ;  but  here  he  does  make 
one  so  noticeable,  on  account  of  his  color. 
I  've  got  scarcely  a  frock  that  he  agrees 
with.  He  don't  go  with  my  pink  muslin, 
and  that  lovely  buff  tint  he  makes  three 
shades  lighter.  You  know  yellow  is  so  try- 
ing." 

A  consultation  was  quickly  held  by  the 
whole  settlement,  and  a  deputation  sent  to 


A   YELLOW  DOG  57 

Sacramento  to  relieve  the  unfortunate  girl. 
We  were  all  quite  indignant  with  Bones  — 
but,  oddly  enough,  I  think  it  was  greatly 
tempered  with  our  new  pride  in  him. 
While  he  was  with  us  alone,  his  peculiarities 
had  been  scarcely  appreciated,  but  the  re- 
current phrase,  "that  yellow  dog  that  they 
keep  at  the  Rattlers,"  gave  us  a  mysterious 
importance  along  the  country  side,  as  if  we 
had  secured  a  "mascot"  in  some  zoological 
curiosity. 

This  was  further  indicated  by  a  singular 
occurrence.  A  new  church  had  been  built 
at  the  cross  roads,  and  an  eminent  divine 
had  come  from  San  Francisco  to  preach  the 
opening  sermon.  After  a  careful  examina- 
tion of  the  camp's  wardrobe,  and  some  feli- 
citous exchange  of  apparel,  a  few  of  us  were 
deputed  to  represent  "Rattlers  "  at  the  Sun- 
day service.  In  our  white  ducks,  straw 
hats,  and  flannel  blouses,  we  were  suffi- 
ciently picturesque  and  distinctive  as  "hon- 
est miners "  to  be  shown  off  in  one  of  the 
front  pews. 

Seated  near  the  prettiest  girls,  who  offered 
us  their  hymn-books  —  in  the  cleanly  odor 
of  fresh  pine  shavings,  and  ironed  muslin, 
and  blown  over  by  the  spices  of  our  own 


58  A   YELLOW  DOG. 

woods  through  the  open  windows,  a  deep 
sense  of  the  abiding  peace  of  Christian  com- 
munion settled  upon  us.  At  this  supreme 
moment  some  one  murmured  in  an  awe- 
stricken  whisper :  — 

"  Will  you  look  at  Bones?  " 

We  looked.  Bones  had  entered  the 
church  and  gone  up  in  the  gallery  through 
a  pardonable  ignorance  and  modesty;  but, 
perceiving  his  mistake,  was  now  calmly 
walking  along  the  gallery  rail  before  the 
astounded  worshipers.  Reaching  the  end, 
he  paused  for  a  moment,  and  carelessly 
looked  down.  It  was  about  fifteen  feet  to 
the  floor  below  —  the  simplest  jump  in  the 
world  for  the  mountain-bred  Bones.  Dain- 
tily, gingerly,  lazily,  and  yet  with  a  con- 
ceited airiness  of  manner,  as  if,  humanly 
speaking,  he  had  one  leg  in  his  pocket  and 
were  doing  it  on  three,  he  cleared  the  dis- 
tance, dropping  just  in  front  of  the  chancel, 
without  a  sound,  turned  himself  around 
three  times,  and  then  lay  comfortably  down. 

Three  deacons  were  instantly  in  the  aisle 
coming  up  before  the  eminent  divine,  who, 
we  fancied,  wore  a  restrained  smile.  We 
heard  the  hurried  whispers:  "Belongs  to 
them."  "Quite  a  local  institution  here, 


A   YELLOW  DOG.  59 

you  know."  "Don't  like  to  offend  sensi- 
bilities;" and  the  minister's  prompt  "By 
no  means,"  as  he  went  on  with  his  service. 

A  short  month  ago  we  would  have  repu- 
diated Bones ;  to-day  we  sat  there  in  slightly 
supercilious  attitudes,  as  if  to  indicate  that 
any  affront  offered  to  Bones  would  be  an 
insult  to  ourselves,  and  followed  by  our  in- 
stantaneous withdrawal  in  a  body. 

All  went  well,  however,  until  the  minis- 
ter, lifting  the  large  Bible  from  the  com- 
munion table  and  holding  it  in  both  hands 
before  him,  walked  towards  a  reading-stand 
by  the  altar  rails.  Bones  uttered  a  distinct 
growl.  The  minister  stopped. 

We,  and  we  alone,  comprehended  in  a 
flash  the  whole  situation.  The  Bible  was 
nearly  the  size  and  shape  of  one  of  those 
soft  clods  of  sod  which  we  were  in  the  play- 
ful habit  of  launching  at  Bones  when  he  lay 
half  asleep  in  the  sun,  in  order  to  see  him 
cleverly  evade  it. 

We  held  our  breath.  What  was  to  be 
done  ?  But  the  opportunity  belonged  to  our 
leader,  Jeff  Briggs  —  a  confoundedly  good- 
looking  fellow,  with  the  golden  mustache 
of  a  northern  viking  and  the  curls  of  an 
Apollo.  Secure  in  his  beauty  and  bland  in 


60  A    YELLOW  DOG. 

his  self-conceit,  he  rose  from  the  pew,  and 
stepped  before  the  chancel  rails. 

"I  would  wait  a  moment,  if  I  were  you, 
sir,"  he  said,  respectfully,  "and  you  will 
see  that  he  will  go  out  quietly." 

"What  is  wrong?"  whispered  the  minis- 
ter in  some  concern. 

"He  thinks  you  are  going  to  heave  that 
book  at  him,  sir,  without  giving  him  a  fair 
show,  as  we  do." 

The  minister  looked  perplexed,  but  re- 
mained motionless,  with  the  book  in  his 
hands.  Bones  arose,  walked  half  way  down 
the  aisle,  and  vanished  like  a  yellow  flash ! 

With  this  justification  of  his  reputation, 
Bones  disappeared  for  a  week.  At  the  end 
of  that  time  we  received  a  polite  note  from 
Judge  Preston,  saying  that  the  dog  had 
become  quite  domiciled  in  their  house,  and 
begged  that  the  camp,  without  yielding  up 
their  valuable  property  in  him,  would  allow 
him  to  remain  at  Spring  Valley  for  an  in- 
definite time;  that  both  the  judge  and  his 
daughter  —  with  whom  Bones  was  already 
an  old  friend  —  would  be  glad  if  the  mem- 
bers of  the  camp  would  visit  their  old  favor- 
ite whenever  they  desired,  to  assure  them- 
selves that  he  was  well  cared  for. 


A   YELLOW  DOG.  61 

I  am  afraid  that  the  bait  thus  ingenuously 
thrown  out  had  a  good  deal  to  do  with  our 
ultimate  yielding.  However,  the  reports  of 
those  who  visited  Bones  were  wonderful  and 
marvelous.  He  was  residing  there  in  state, 
lying  on  rugs  in  the  drawing-room,  coiled 
up  under  the  judicial  desk  in  the  judge's 
study,  sleeping  regularly  on  the  mat  outside 
Miss  Pinkey's  bedroom  door,  or  lazily  snap- 
ping at  flies  on  the  judge's  lawn. 

"He  's  as  yaller  as  ever,"  said  one  of  our 
informants,  "but  it  don't  somehow  seem  to 
be  the  same  back  that  we  used  to  break 
clods  over  in  the  old  time,  just  to  see  him 
scoot  out  of  the  dust." 

And  now  I  must  record  a  fact  which  I 
am  aware  all  lovers  of  dogs  will  indignantly 
deny,  and  which  will  be  furiously  bayed  at 
by  every  faithful  hound  since  the  days  of 
Ulysses.  Bones  not  only  forgot,  but  abso- 
lutely cut  us  !  Those  who  called  upon  the 
judge  in  "store  clothes"  he  would  perhaps 
casually  notice,  but  he  would  sniff  at  them 
as  if  detecting  and  resenting  them  under 
their  superficial  exterior.  The  rest  he  sim- 
ply paid  no  attention  to.  The  more  familiar 
term  of  "Bonesy"  —  formerly  applied  to 
him,  as  in  our  rare  moments  of  endearment 


62  A    YELLOW  DOG. 

—  produced  no  response.  This  pained,  I 
think,  some  of  the  more  youthful  of  us; 
but,  through  some  strange  human  weakness, 
it  also  increased  the  camp's  respect  for  him. 
Nevertheless,  we  spoke  of  him  familiarly  to 
strangers  at  the  very  moment  he  ignored 
us.  I  am  afraid  that  we  also  took  some 
pains  to  point  out  that  he  was  getting  fat 
and  unwieldy,  and  losing  his  elasticity,  im- 
plying covertly  that  his  choice  was  a  mis- 
take and  his  life  a  failure. 

A  year  after  he  died,  in  the  odor  of  sanc- 
tity and  respectability,  being  found  one 
morning  coiled  up  and  stiff  on  the  mat  out- 
side Miss  Pinkey's  door.  When  the  news 
was  conveyed  to  us,  we  asked  permission, 
the  camp  being  in  a  prosperous  condition, 
to  erect  a  stone  over  his  grave.  But  when 
it  came  to  the  inscription  we  could  only 
think  of  the  two  words  murmured  to  him 
by  Miss  Pinkey,  which  we  always  believe 
effected  his  conversion :  — 

"flood  Dog  I" 


A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE. 

SHE  was  a  mother  —  and  a  rather  exem- 
plary one  —  of  five  children,  although  her 
own  age  was  barely  nine.  Two  of  these 
children  were  twins,  and  she  generally  al- 
luded to  them  as  "Mr.  Amplach's  children," 
referring  to  an  exceedingly  respectable  gen- 
tleman in  the  next  settlement,  who,  I  have 
reason  to  believe,  had  never  set  eyes  on  her 
or  them.  The  twins  were  quite  naturally 
alike  —  having  been  in  a  previous  state  of 
existence  two  ninepins  —  and  were  still 
somewhat  vague  and  inchoate  below  their 
low  shoulders  in  their  long  clothes,  but  were 
also  firm  and  globular  about  the  head,  and 
there  were  not  wanting  those  who  professed 
to  see  in  this  an  unmistakable  resemblance 
to  their  reputed  father.  The  other  children 
were  dolls  of  different  ages,  sex,  and  condi- 
tion, but  the  twins  may  be  said  to  have  been 
distinctly  her  own  conception.  Yet  such 
was  her  admirable  and  impartial  maternity 
that  she  never  made  any  difference  between 
Bret  Harte  3— V.  6 


64  A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE. 

them.     "The  Amplach's  children"  was  a 
description  rather  than  a  distinction. 

She  was  herself  the  motherless  child  of 
Robert  Foulkes,  a  hard-working  but  some- 
what improvident  teamster  on  the  Express 
Route  between  Big  Bend  and  Reno.  His 
daily  avocation,  when  she  was  not  actually 
with  him  in  the  wagon,  led  to  an  occasional 
dispersion  of  herself  and  her  progeny  along 
the  road  and  at  wayside  stations  between 
those  places.  But  the  family  was  generally 
collected  together  by  rough  but  kindly 
hands  already  familiar  with  the  handling  of 
her  children.  I  have  a  very  vivid  recollec- 
tion of  Jim  Carter  trampling  into  a  saloon, 
after  a  five-mile  walk  through  a  snowdrift, 
with  an  Amplach  twin  in  his  pocket. 
"Suthin'  ought  to  be  done,"  he  growled, 
"to  make  Meary  a  little  more  careful  o' 
them  Amplach  children;  I  picked  up  one 
outer  the  snow  a  mile  beyond  Big  Bend." 
"God  bless  my  soul!  "  said  a  casual  passen- 
ger, looking  up  hastily;  "I  did  n't  know 
Mr.  Amplach  was  married."  Jim  winked 
diabolically  at  us  over  his  glass.  "No  more 
did  I,"  he  responded  gloomily,  "but  you 
can't  tell  anything  about  the  ways  o'  them 
respectable,  psalm  -  singing  jay  birds." 


A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE.  65 

Having  thus  disposed  of  Amplach's  charac- 
ter, later  on,  when  he  was  alone  with  Mary, 
or  "Meary,"  as  she  chose  to  pronounce  it, 
the  rascal  worked  upon  her  feelings  with  an 
account  of  the  infant  Amplach's  sufferings 
in  the  snowdrift  and  its  agonized  whisper- 
ings for  "Meary!  Meary! "  until  real  tears 
stood  in  Mary's  blue  eyes.  "Let  this  be  a 
lesson  to  you,"  he  concluded,  drawing  the 
ninepin  dexterously  from  his  pocket,  "for 
it  took  nigh  a  quart  of  the  best  forty-rod 
whiskey  to  bring  that  child  to."  Not  only 
did  Mary  firmly  believe  him,  but  for- weeks 
afterwards  "Julian  Amplach"  —  this  un- 
happy twin  —  was  kept  in  a  somnolent  atti- 
tude in  the  cart,  and  was  believed  to  have 
contracted  dissipated  habits  from  the  effects 
of  his  heroic  treatment. 

Her  numerous  family  was  achieved  in 
only  two  years,  and  succeeded  her  first 
child,  which  was  brought  from  Sacramento 
at  considerable  expense  by  .a  Mr.  William 
Dodd,  also  a  teamster,  on  her  seventh  birth- 
day. This,  by  one  of  those  rare  inventions 
known  only  to  a  child's  vocabulary,  she  at 
once  called  "Misery" — probably  a  combi- 
nation of  "Missy,"  as  she  herself  was  for- 
merly termed  by  strangers,  and  "Missouri," 


66  A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE. 

her  native  State.  It  was  an  excessively 
large  doll  at  first  —  Mr.  Dodd  wishing  to 
get  the  worth  of  his  money  —  but  time,  and 
perhaps  an  excess  of  maternal  care,  reme- 
died the  defect,  and  it  lost  flesh  and  certain 
unemployed  parts  of  its  limbs  very  rapidly. 
It  was  further  reduced  in  bulk  by  falling 
under  the  wagon  and  having  the  whole  train 
pass  over  it,  but  singularly  enough  its  great- 
est attenuation  was  in  the  head  and  shoul- 
ders —  the  complexion  peeling  off  as  a  solid 
layer,  followed  by  the  disappearance  of  dis- 
tinct strata  of  its  extraordinary  composition. 
This  continued  until  the  head  and  shoulders 
were  much  too  small  for  even  its  reduced 
frame,  and  all  the  devices  of  childish  milli- 
nery —  a  shawl  secured  with  tacks  and  well 
hammered  in,  and  a  hat  which  tilted  back- 
wards and  forwards  and  never  appeared  at 
the  same  angle  —  failed  to  restore  symme- 
try. Until  one  dreadful  morning,  after  an 
imprudent  bath,  the  whole  upper  structure 
disappeared,  leaving  two  hideous  iron  prongs 
standing  erect  from  the  spinal  column. 
Even  an  imaginative  child  like  Mary  could 
not  accept  this  sort  of  thing  as  a  head. 
Later  in  the  day  Jack  Roper,  the  black- 
smith at  the  "Crossing:,"  was  concerned  at 


A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE.  67 

the  plaintive  appearance,  before  his  forge, 
of  a  little  girl,  clad  in  a  bright  blue  pina- 
fore of  the  same  color  as  her  eyes,  carrying 
her  monstrous  offspring  in  her  arms.  Jack 
recognized  her  and  instantly  divined  the 
situation.  "You  haven't,"  he  suggested 
kindly,  "got  another  head  at  home  —  suthin' 
left  over?"  Mary  shook  her  head  sadly; 
even  her  prolific  maternity  was  not  equal  to 
the  creation  of  children  in  detail.  "Nor 
any  thin'  like  a  head?"  he  persisted  sympa- 
thetically. Mary's  loving  eyes  filled  with 
tears.  "No,  nuffen!"  "You  couldn't," 
he  continued  thoughtfully,  "use  her  the 
other  side  up? — we  might  get  a  fine  pair 
o'  legs  outer  them  irons,"  he  added,  touch- 
ing the  two  prongs  with  artistic  suggestion. 
"Now  look  here  "  —  he  was  about  to  tilt  the 
doll  over  when  a  small  cry  of  feminine  dis- 
tress and  a  swift  movement  of  a  matronly 
little  arm  arrested  the  evident  indiscretion. 
"I  see,"  he  said  gravely.  "Well,  you 
come  here  to-morrow,  and  we  '11  fix  up 
suthin'  to  work  her."  Jack  was  thoughtful 
the  rest  of  the  day,  more  than  usually  im- 
patient with  certain  stubborn  mules  to  be 
shod,  and  even  knocked  off  work  an  hour 
earlier  to  walk  to  Big  Bend  and  a  rival 


68  A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE. 

shop.  But  the  next  morning  when  the 
trustful  and  anxious  mother  appeared  at  the 
forge  she  uttered  a  scream  of  delight.  Jack 
had  neatly  joined  a  hollow  iron  globe,  taken 
from  the  newel  post  of  some  old  iron  stair- 
case railing,  to  the  two  prongs,  and  covered 
it  with  a  coat  of  red  fire-proof  paint.  It 
was  true  that  its  complexion  was  rather 
high,  that  it  was  inclined  to  be  top-heavy, 
and  that  in  the  long  run  the  other  dolls  suf- 
fered considerably  by  enforced  association 
with  this  unyielding  and  implacable  head 
and  shoulders,  but  this  did  not  diminish 
Mary's  joy  over  her  restored  first-born. 
Even  its  utter  absence  of  features  was  no 
defect  in  a  family  where  features  were  as 
evanescent  as  in  hers,  and  the  most  ordinary 
student  of  evolution  could  see  that  the 
"Amplach"  ninepins  were  in  legitimate 
succession  to  the  globular -headed  "Misery." 
For  a  time  I  think  that  Mary  even  preferred 
her  to  the  others.  Howbeit  it  was  a  pretty 
sight  to  see  her  on  a  summer  afternoon  sit- 
ting upon  a  wayside  stump,  her  other  chil- 
dren dutifully  ranged  around  her,  and  the 
hard,  unfeeling  head  of  Misery  pressed  deep 
down  into  her  loving  little  heart,  as  she 
swayed  from  side  to  side,  crooning  her  plain- 


A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE.  69 

tive  lullaby.  Small  wonder  that  the  bees 
took  up  the  song  and  droned  a  slumbrous 
accompaniment,  or  that  high  above  her  head 
the  enormous  pines,  stirred  through  their 
depths  by  the  soft  Sierran  air  —  or  Heaven 
knows  what  —  let  slip  flickering  lights  and 
shadows  to  play  over  that  cast-iron  face, 
until  the  child,  looking  down  upon  it  with 
the  quick,  transforming  power  of  love, 
thought  that  it  smiled  ? 

The  two  remaining  members  of  the  family 
were  less  distinctive.  "Gloriana"  —  pro- 
nounced as  two  words:  "Glory  Anna"  — 
being  the  work  of  her  father,  who  also 
named  it,  was  simply  a  cylindrical  roll  of 
canvas  wagon -covering,  girt  so  as  to  define 
a  neck  and  waist,  with  a  rudely  inked  face 
—  altogether  a  weak,  pitiable,  man  -  like 
invention;  and  "Johnny  Dear,"  alleged  to 
be  the  representative  of  John  Doremus,  a 
young  storekeeper  who  occasionally  supplied 
Mary  with  gratuitous  sweets.  Mary  never 
admitted  this,  and,  as  we  were  all  gentle- 
men along  that  road,  we  were  blind  to  the 
suggestion.  "Johnny  Dear"  was  originally 
a  small  plaster  phrenological  cast  of  a  head 
and  bust,  begged  from  some  shop  window 
in  the  county  town,  with  a  body  clearly 


70  A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE. 

constructed  by  Mary  herself.  It  was  an 
ominous  fact  that  it  was  always  dressed  as 
a  boy,  and  was  distinctly  the  most  human- 
looking  of  all  her  progeny.  Indeed,  in 
spite  of  the  faculties  that  were  legibly 
printed  all  over  its  smooth,  white,  hairless 
head,  it  was  appallingly  life-like.  Left 
sometimes  by  Mary  astride  of  the  branch  of 
a  wayside  tree,  horsemen  had  been  known 
to  dismount  hurriedly  and  examine  it,  re- 
turning with  a  mystified  smile,  and  it  was 
on  record  that  Yuba  Bill  had  once  pulled 
up  the  Pioneer  Coach  at  the  request  of  curi- 
ous and  imploring  passengers,  and  then 
grimly  installed  "Johnny  Dear"  beside  him 
on  the  box  seat,  publicly  delivering  him  to 
Mary  at  Big  Bend,  to  her  wide-eyed  confu- 
sion and  the  first  blush  we  had  ever  seen  on 
her  round,  chubby,  sunburnt  cheeks.  It 
may  seem  strange  that,  with  her  great  popu- 
larity and  her  well-known  maternal  instincts, 
she  had  not  been  kept  fully  supplied  with 
proper  and  more  conventional  dolls ;  but  it 
was  soon  recognized  that  she  did  not  care 
for  them  —  left  their  waxen  faces,  rolling 
eyes,  and  abundant  hair  in  ditches,  or 
stripped  them  to  help  clothe  the  more  ex- 
travagant creatures  of  her  fancy.  So  it 


A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE.  71 

came  that  "Johnny  Dear's"  strictly  classi- 
cal profile  looked  out  from  under  a  girl's 
fashionable  straw  sailor  hat,  to  the  utter 
obliteration  of  his  prominent  intellectual 
faculties;  the  Amplach  twins  wore  bonnets 
on  their  ninepin  heads,  and  even  an  attempt 
was  made  to  fit  a  flaxen  scalp  on  the  iron- 
headed  Misery.  But  her  dolls  were  always 
a  creation  of  her  own  —  her  affection  for 
them  increasing  with  the  demand  upon  her 
imagination.  This  may  seem  somewhat 
inconsistent  with  her  habit  of  occasionally 
abandoning  them  in  the  woods  or  in  the 
ditches.  But  she  had  an  unbounded  confi- 
dence in  the  kindly  maternity  of  Nature, 
and  trusted  her  children  to  the  breast  of  the 
Great  Mother  as  freely  as  she  did  herself 
in  her  own  motherlessness.  And  this  con- 
fidence was  rarely  betrayed.  Rats,  mice, 
snails,  wild  cats,  panther  and  bear  never 
touched  her  lost  waifs.  Even  the  elements 
were  kindly;  an  Amplach  twin  buried  un- 
der a  snowdrift  in  high  altitxides  reappeared 
smilingly  in  the  spring  in  all  its  wooden  and 
painted  integrity.  We  were  all  Pantheists 
then  —  and  believed  this  implicitly.  It  was 
only  when  exposed  to  the  milder  forces  of 
civilization  that  Mary  had  anything  to  fear. 


72  A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE. 

Yet  even  then,  when  Patsey  O'Connor's 
domestic  goat  had  once  tried  to  "sample" 
the  lost  Misery,  he  had  retreated  with  the 
loss  of  three  front  teeth,  and  Thompson's 
mule  came  out  of  an  encounter  with  that 
iron -headed  prodigy  with  a  sprained  hind 
leg  and  a  cut  and  swollen  pastern. 

But  these  were  the  simple  Arcadian  days 
of  the  road  between  Big  Bend  and  Reno, 
and  progress  and  prosperity,  alas!  brought 
changes  in  their  wake.  It  was  already 
whispered  that  Mary  ought  to  be  going  to 
school,  and  Mr.  Amplach  —  still  happily 
oblivious  of  the  liberties  taken  with  his 
name  —  as  trustee  of  the  public  school  at 
Duckville,  had  intimated  that  Mary's  Bo- 
hemian wanderings  were  a  scandal  to  the 
county.  She  was  growing  up  in  ignorance, 
a  dreadful  ignorance  of  everything  but  the 
chivalry,  the  deep  tenderness,  the  delicacy 
and  unselfishness  of  the  rude  men  around 
her,  and  obliviousness  of  faith  in  anything 
but  the  immeasurable  bounty  of  Nature 
towards  her  and  her  children.  Of  course 
there  was  a  fierce  discussion  between  "the 
boys  "  of  the  road  and  the  few  married  fami- 
lies of  the  settlement  on  this  point,  but,  of 
course,  progress  and  "  snivelization  "  —  as 


A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE.  73 

the  boys  chose  to  call  it  —  triumphed.  The 
projection  of  a  railroad  settled  it;  Robert 
Foulkes,  promoted  to  a  foremanship  of  a 
division  of  the  line,  was  made  to  understand 
that  his  daughter  must  be  educated.  But 
the  terrible  question  of  Mary's  family  re- 
mained. No  school  would  open  its  doors  to 
that  heterogeneous  collection,  and  Mary's 
little  heart  would  have  broken  over  the  rude 
dispersal  or  heroic  burning  of  her  children. 
The  ingenuity  of  Jack  Roper  suggested  a 
compromise.  She  was  allowed  to  select  one 
to  take  to  school  with  her;  the  others  were 
adopted  by  certain  of  her  friends,  and  she 
was  to  be  permitted  to  visit  them  every 
Saturday  afternoon.  The  selection  was  a 
cruel  trial,  so  cruel  that,  knowing  her  un- 
doubted preference  for  her  first-born,  Mis- 
ery, we  would  not  have  interfered  for  worlds, 
but  in  her  unexpected  choice  of  "Johnny 
Dear  "  the  most  unworldly  of  us  knew  that 
it  was  the  first  glimmering  of  feminine  tact 
—  her  first  submission  to  the  world  of  pro- 
priety that  she  was  now  entering.  "Johnny 
Dear  "  was  undoubtedly  the  most  presenta- 
ble; even  more,  there  was  an  educational 
suggestion  in  its  prominent,  mapped  out 
phrenological  organs.  The  adopted  fathers 


74  A  MOTHEE   OF  FIVE. 

were  loyal  to  their  trust.  Indeed,  for  years 
afterwards  the  blacksmith  kept  the  iron- 
headed  Misery  on  a  rude  shelf,  like  a  shrine, 
near  his  bunk;  nobody  but  himself  and 
Meary  ever  knew  the  secret,  stolen,  and 
thrilling  interviews  that  took  place  during 
the  first  days  of  their  separation.  Certain 
facts,  however,  transpired  concerning  Mary's 
equal  faithfulness  to  another  of  her  children. 
It  is  said  that  one  Saturday  afternoon,  when 
the  road  manager  of  the  new  line  was  seated 
in  his  office  at  Keno  in  private  business  dis- 
cussion with  two  directors,  a  gentle  tap  was 
heard  at  the  door.  It  was  opened  to  an 
eager  little  face,  a  pair  of  blue  eyes,  and  a 
blue  pinafore.  To  the  astonishment  of  the 
directors,  a  change  came  over  the  face  of 
the  manager.  Taking  the  child  gently  by 
the  hand,  he  walked  to  his  desk,  on  which 
the  papers  of  the  new  line  were  scattered, 
and  drew  open  a  drawer  from  which  he  took 
a  large  ninepin  extraordinarily  dressed  as 
doll.  The  astonishment  of  the  two  gentle- 
men was  increased  at  the  following  quaint 
colloquy  between  the  manager  and  the  child. 
"She  's  doing  remarkably  well  in  spite  of 
the  trying  weather,  but  I  have  had  to  keep 
her  very  quiet,"  said  the  manager,  regard- -, 
ing  the  ninepin  critically. 


A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE.  75 

"Ess,"  said  Mary  quickly.  "It's  just 
the  same  with  Johnny  Dear;  his  cough  is 
f 'ightful  at  nights.  But  Misery  's  all  right. 
I  've  just  been  to  see  her." 

"There's  a  good  deal  of  scarlet  fever 
around,"  continued  the  manager  with  quiet 
concern,  "and  we  can't  be  too  careful. 
But  I  shall  take  her  for  a  little  run  down 
the  line  to-morrow." 

The  eyes  of  Mary  sparkled  and  overflowed 
like  blue  water.  Then  there  was  a  kiss,  a 
little  laugh,  a  shy  glance  at  the  two  curious 
strangers,  the  blue  pinafore  fluttered  away, 
and  the  colloquy  ended.  She  was  equally 
attentive  in  her  care  of  the  others,  but  the 
rag  baby  "Gloriana,"  who  had  found  a 
home  in  Jim  Carter's  cabin  at  the  Ridge, 
living  too  far  for  daily  visits,  was  brought 
down  regularly  on  Saturday  afternoon  to 
Mary's  house  by  Jim,  tucked  in  asleep  in 
his  saddle  bags  or  riding  gallantly  before 
him  on  the  horn  of  his  saddle.  On  Sunday 
there  was  a  dress  parade  of  all  the  dolls, 
which  kept  Mary  in  heart  for  the  next 
week's  desolation. 

But  there  came  one  Saturday  and  Sunday 
when  Mary  did  not  appear,  and  it  was 
known  along  the  road  that  she  ha<l  been 


76  A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE. 

called  to  San  Francisco  to  meet  an  aunt  who 
had  just  arrived  from  "the  States."  It  was 
a  vacant  Sunday  to  "the  boys,"  a  very  hol- 
low, unsanctified  Sunday,  somehow,  without 
that  little  figure.  But  the  next  Sunday, 
and  the  next,  were  still  worse,  and  then  it 
was  known  that  the  dreadful  aunt  was  mak- 
ing much  of  Mary,  and  was  sending  her  to 
a  grand  school  —  a  convent  at  Santa  Clara 
—  where  it  was  rumored  girls  were  turned 
out  so  accomplished  that  their  own  parents 
did  not  know  them.  But  we  knew  that  was 
impossible  to  our  Mary ;  and  a  letter  which 
came  from  her  at  the  end  of  the  month,  and 
before  the  convent  had  closed  upon  the  blue 
pinafore,  satisfied  us,  and  was  balm  to  our 
anxious  hearts.  It  was  characteristic  of 
Mary;  it  was  addressed  to  nobody  in  par- 
ticular, and  would  —  but  for  the  prudence 
of  the  aunt  —  have  been  entrusted  to  the 
Post  Office  open  and  undirected.  It  was 
a  single  sheet,  handed  to  us  without  a  word 
by  her  father;  but,  as  we  passed  it  from 
hand  to  hand,  we  understood  it  as  if  we  had 
heard  our  lost  playfellow's  voice. 

"Ther  's  more  houses  in  'Frisco  than  you 
kin  shake  a  stick  at  and  wimmens  till  you 
kant  rest,  but  mules  and  jakasses  ain't  got 


A  MOTHER  OF  FIVE.  77 

no  sho,  nor  blacksmiffs  shops,  wich  is  not 
to  be  seen  no  wear.  Eapits  and  Skwirls 
also  bares  and  panfers  is  on-noun  and  un- 
forgotten  on  account  of  the  streets  and  Sun- 
day skoles.  Jim  Roper  you  orter  be  very 
good  to  Mizzery  on  a  kount  of  my  not  bein' 
here,  and  not  harten  your  hart  to  her  bekos 
she  is  top  heavy  —  which  is  ontroo  and  sim- 
ply an  imptient  lie  —  like  you  allus  make. 
I  have  a  kinary  bird  wot  sings  delitef  ul  — 
but  is  n't  a  yellerhamer  sutch  as  I  know,  as 
you  'd  think.  Dear  Mister  Montgommery, 
don't  keep  Gulan  Amplak  to  mutch  shet  up 
in  office  drors;  it  isn't  good  for  his  lungs 
and  chest.  And  don't  you  ink  his  head  — 
nother !  youre  as  bad  as  the  rest.  Johnny 
Dear,  you  must  be  very  kind  to  your  at- 
topted  father,  and  you,  Glory  Anna,  must 
lov  your  kind  Jimmy  Carter  verry  mutch 
for  taking  you  hossback  so  offen.  I  has 
been  buggy  ridin'  with  an  orficer  who  has 
killed  injuns  real!  I  am  comin'  back  soon 
with  grate  affeckshun,  so  luke  out  and 
mind." 

But  it  was  three  years  before  she  returned, 
and  this  was  her  last  and  only  letter.  The 
"  adopted  fathers  "  of  her  children  were  faith- 
ful, however,  and  when  the  new  line  was 


78  A  MOTHER   OF  FIVE. 

opened,  and  it  was  understood  that  she  was 
to  be  present  with  her  father  at  the  cere- 
mony, they  came,  with  a  common  under- 
standing, to  the  station  to  meet  their  old 
playmate.  They  were  ranged  along  the  plat- 
form —  poor  Jack  Roper  a  little  overweighted 
with  a  bundle  he  was  carrying  on  his  left 
arm.  And  then  a  young  girl  in  the  fresh- 
ness of  her  teens  and  the  spotless  purity  of 
a  muslin  frock,  that  although  brief  in  skirt 
was  perfect  in  fit,  faultlessly  booted  and 
gloved,  tripped  from  the  train,  and  offered 
a  delicate  hand  in  turn  to  each  of  her  old 
friends.  Nothing  could  be  prettier  than 
the  smile  on  the  cheeks  that  were  no  longer 
sunburnt;  nothing  could  be  clearer  than  the 
blue  eyes  lifted  frankly  to  theirs.  And  yet, 
as  she  gracefully  turned  away  with  her 
father,  the  faces  of  the  four  adopted  parents 
were  found  to  be  as  red  and  embarrassed  as 
her  own  on  the  day  that  Yuba  Bill  drove 
up  publicly  with  "Johnny  Dear"  on  the 
box  seat. 

"You  were  n't  such  a  fool,"  said  Jack 
Montgomery  to  Roper,  "as  to  bring  'Mis- 
ery '  here  with  you?" 

"I  was,"  said  Roper  with  a  constrained 
laugh,  —  "and  you? "  He  had  just  caught 


A  MOTHEE   OF  FIVE.  79 

sight  of  the  head  of  a  ninepin  peeping  from 
the  manager's  pocket.  The  man  laughed, 
and  then  the  four  turned  silently  away. 

"Mary"  had  indeed  come  back  to  them; 
but  not  "The  Mother  of  Five! " 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

WE  all  remembered  very  distinctly  Bul- 
ger's advent  in  Rattlesnake  Camp.  It  was 
during  the  rainy  season  —  a  season  singu- 
larly inducive  to  settled  reflective  impres- 
sions as  we  sat  and  smoked  around  the  stove 
in  Mosby's  grocery.  Like  older  and  more 
civilized  communities,  we  had  our  periodic 
waves  of  sentiment  and  opinion,  with  the 
exception  that  they  were  more  evanescent 
with  us,  and,  as  we  had  just  passed  through 
a  fortnight  of  dissipation  and  extravagance, 
owing  to  a  visit  from  some  gamblers  and 
speculators,  we  were  now  undergoing  a 
severe  moral  revulsion,  partly  induced  by 
reduced  finances  and  partly  by  the  arrival 
of  two  families  with  grown-up  daughters  on 
the  hill.  It  was  raining,  with  occasional 
warm  breaths,  through  the  open  window,  of 
the  southwest  trades,  redolent  of  the  satu- 
rated spices  of  the  woods  and  springing 
grasses,  which  perhaps  were  slightly  incon- 
,sistent  with  the  hot  stove  around  which  we 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  81 

had  congregated.  But  the  stove  was  only 
an  excuse  for  our  listless,  gregarious  gather- 
ing ;  warmth  and  idleness  went  well  together, 
and  it  was  currently  accepted  that  we  had 
caught  from  the  particular  reptile  which 
gave  its  name  to  our  camp  much  of  its  pa- 
thetic, life-long  search  for  warmth,  and  its 
habit  of  indolently  basking  in  it. 

A  few  of  us  still  went  through  the  affec- 
tation of  attempting  to  dry  our  damp  clothes 
by  the  stove,  and  sizzling  our  wet  boots 
against  it ;  but  as  the  same  individuals  calmly 
permitted  the  rain  to  drive  in  upon  them 
through  the  open  window  without  moving, 
and  seemed  to  take  infinite  delight  in  the 
amount  of  steam  they  generated,  even  that 
pretense  dropped.  Crotalus  himself,  with 
his  tail  in  a  muddy  ditch,  and  the  sun  strik- 
ing cold  fire  from  his  slit  eyes  as  he  basked 
his  head  on  a  warm  stone  beside  it,  could 
not  have  typified  us  better. 

Percy  Briggs  took  his  pipe  from  his 
mouth  at  last  and  said,  with  reflective  sever- 
ity:— 

"Well,  gentlemen,  if  we  can't  get  the 
wagon  road  over  here,  and  if  we  're  going 
to  be  left  out  by  the  stage-coach  company, 
we  can  at  least  straighten  up  the  camp,  and 


82  BULGES' S  REPUTATION. 

not  have  it  look  like  a  cross  between  a  tene- 
ment alley  and  a  broken-down  circus.  I 
declare,  I  was  just  sick  when  these  two 
Baker  girls  started  to  make  a  short  cut 
through  the  camp.  Darned  if  they  didn't 
turn  round  and  take  to  the  woods  and  the 
rattlers  again  afore  they  got  half-way. 
And  that  benighted  idiot,  Torn  Rollins, 
standin'  there  in  the  ditch,  spattered  all 
over  with  slumgullion  'til  he  looked  like  a 
spotted  tarrypin,  wavin'  his  fins  and  sashay- 
ing backwards  and  forrards  and  sayin', 
'  This  way,  ladies;  this  way! ' ' 

"/  didn't,"  returned  Tom  Rollins,  quite 
casually,  without  looking  up  from  his  steam- 
ing boots;  "/  didn't  start  in  night  afore 
last  to  dance  '  The  Green  Corn  Dance ' 
outer  '  Hiawatha,'  with  feathers  in  my  hair 
and  a  red  blanket  on  my  shoulders,  round 
Jhat  family's  new  potato  patch,  in  order 
that  it  might  '  increase  and  multiply.'  I 
did  n't  sing  '  Sabbath  Morning  Bells  '  with 
an  anvil  accompaniment  until  twelve  o'clock 
at  night  over  at  the  Crossing,  so  that  they 
might  dream  of  their  Happy  Childhood's 
Home.  It  seems  to  me  that  it  was  n't  me 
did  it.  I  might  be  mistaken  —  it  was  late 
—  but  I  have  the  impression  that  it  wasn't 
me." 


BULGEE'S  EEPUTATION.  83 

From  the  silence  that  followed,  this  would 
seem  to  have  been  clearly  a  recent  perfor- 
mance of  the  previous  speaker,  who,  how- 
ever, responded  quite  cheerfully :  — 

"An  evenin'  o'  simple,  childish  gayety 
don't  count.  We  've  got  to  start  in  again 
fair.  What  we  want  here  is  to  clear  up 
and  encourage  decent  immigration,  and  get 
rid  o'  gamblers  and  blatherskites  that  are 
makin'  this  yer  camp  their  happy  hunting- 
ground.  We  don't  want  any  more  permis- 
kus  shootin'.  We  don't  want  any  more 
paintin'  the  town  red.  We  don't  want  any 
more  swaggerin'  galoots  ridin'  up  to  this 
grocery  and  emptyin'  their  six-shooters  in 
the  air  afore  they  'light.  We  want  to  put 
a  stop  to  it  peacefully  u,nd  without  a  row  — 
and  we  kin.  We  ain't  got  no  bullies  of 
our  own  to  fight  back,  and  they  know  it,  so 
they  know  they  won't  get  no  credit  bully  in' 
us;  they  '11  leave,  if  we  're  only  firm.  It 's 
all  along  of  our  cussed  fool  good-nature; 
they  see  it  amuses  us,  and  they  '11  keep  it 
up  as  long  as  the  whiskey  's  free.  What  we 
want  to  do  is,  when  the  next  man  comes 
waltzin'  along  "  — 

A  distant  clatter  from  the  rocky  hillside 
here  mingled  with  the  puff  of  damp  air 
through  the  window. 


84  BULGERS  REPUTATION, 

"Looks  as  ef  we  might  hev  a  show  even 
now,"  said  Tom  Rollins,  removing  his  feet 
from  the  stove  as  we  all  instinctively  faced 
towards  the  window. 

"I  reckon  you  're  in  with  us  in  this, 
Mosby?"  said  Briggs,  turning  towards  the 
proprietor  of  the  grocery,  who  had  been 
leaning  listlessly  against  the  wall  behind 
his  bar. 

"Arter  the  man  's  had  a  fair  show,"  said 
Mosby,  cautiously.  He  deprecated  the  pre- 
vailing condition  of  things,  but  it  was  still 
an  open  question  whether  the  families  would 
prove  as  valuable  customers  as  his  present 
clients.  "Everything  in  moderation,  gen- 
tlemen." 

The  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  came  nearer, 
now  swishing  in  the  soft  mud  of  the  high- 
way, until  the  unseen  rider  pulled  up  before 
the  door.  There  was  no  shouting,  however, 
nor  did  he  announce  himself  with  the  usual 
salvo  of  fire-arms.  But  when,  after  a  sin- 
gularly heavy  tread  and  the  jingle  of  spurs 
on  the  platform,  the  door  flew  open  to  the 
new-comer,  he  seemed  a  realization  of  our 
worst  expectations.  Tall,  broad,  and  mus- 
cular, he  carried  in  one  hand  a  shot-gun, 
,  while  from  his  hip  dangled  a  heavy  navy 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  85 

revolver.,  His  long  hair,  unkempt  but 
oiled,  swept  a  greasy  circle  around  his 
shoulders  5  his  enormous  moustache,  drip- 
ping with  wet,  completely  concealed  his 
mouth.  His  costume  of  fringed  buckskin 
was  wild  and  outre  even  for  our  frontier 
camp.  But  what  was  more  confirmative  of 
our  suspicions  was  that  he  was  evidently  in 
the  habit  of  making  an  impression,  and  after 
a  distinct  pause  at  the  doorway,  with  only 
a  side  glance  at  us,  he  strode  towards  the 
bar. 

"As  there  don't  seem  to  be  no  hotel  here- 
abouts, I  reckon  I  kin  put  up  my  mustang 
here  and  have  a  shakedown  somewhere  be- 
hind that  counter,"  he  said.  His  voice 
seemed  to  have  added  to  its  natural  depth 
the  hoarseness  of  frequent  over-straining. 

"Ye  ain't  got  no  bunk  to  spare,  you 
boys,  hev  ye? "  asked  Mosby,  evasively, 
glancing  at  Percy  Briggs,  without  looking 
at  the  stranger.  We  all  looked  at  Briggs 
also;  it  was  his  affair  after  all  —  he  had 
originated  this  opposition.  To  our  surprise 
he  said  nothing. 

The  stranger  leaned  heavily  on  the  coun- 
ter. 

"I  was  speaking  to  you,"  he  said,  with 


00  BULGEB'S  EEPUTATION. 

his  eyes  on  Mosby,  and  slightly  accenting 
the  pronoun  with  a  tap  of  his  revolver-butt 
on  the  bar.  "Ye  don't  seem  to  catch  on." 

Mosby  smiled  feebly,  and  again  cast  an 
imploring  glance  at  Briggs.  To  our  greater 
astonishment,  Briggs  said,  quietly:  "Why 
don't  you  answer  the  stranger,  Mosby?" 

"Yes,  yes,"  said  Mosby,  suavely,  to  the 
newcomer,  while  an  angry  flush  crossed  his 
cheek  as  he  recognized  the  position  in  which 
Briggs  had  placed  him.  "  Of  course,  you  're 
welcome  to  what  doings  /  hev  here,  but  I 
reckoned  these  gentlemen  over  there,"  with 
a  vicious  glance  at  Briggs,  "might  fix  ye 
up  suthin'  better;  they're  so  pow'ful  kind 
to  your  sort." 

The  stranger  threw  down  a  gold  piece  on 
the  counter  and  said:  "Fork  out  your 
whiskey,  then,"  waited  until  his  glass  was 
filled,  took  it  in  his  hand,  and  then,  draw- 
ing an  empty  chair  to  the  stove,  sat  down 
beside  Briggs.  "Seein'  as  you're  that 
kind,"  he  said,  placing  his  heavy  hand  on 
Briggs 's  knee,  "mebbe  ye  kin  tell  me  ef 
thar  's  a  shanty  or  a  cabin  at  Rattlesnake 
that  I  kin  get  for  a  couple  o'  weeks.  I  saw 
an  empty  one  at  the  head  o'  the  hill.  You 
see,  gennelmen,"  he  added  confidentially  as 


BULGERS  EEPUTATION.  87 

he  swept  the  drops  of  whiskey  from  his  long 
moustache  with  his  fingers  and  glanced 
around  our  group,  "I  've  got  some  business 
over  at  Bigwood,"  our  nearest  town,  "but 
ez  a  place  to  stay  at  it  ain't  my  style." 

"What's  the  matter  with  Bigwood?" 
said  Briggs,  abruptly. 

"It's  too  howlin',  too  festive,  too  rough; 
thar  's  too  much  yellin'  and  shootin'  goin' 
day  and  night.  Thar 's  too  many  card 
sharps  and  gay  gamboliers  cavortin'  about 
the  town  to  please  me.  Too  much  permis- 
kus  soakin'  at  the  bar  and  free  jim-jams. 
What  I  want  is  a  quiet  place  what  a  man 
kin  give  his  mind  and  elbow  a  rest  from 
betwixt  grippin'  his  shootin ' -irons  and 
crookin'  in  his  whiskey.  A  sort  o'  slow, 
quiet,  easy  place  like  this." 

We  all  stared  at  him,  Percy  Briggs  as 
fixedly  as  any.  But  there  was  not  the 
slightest  trace  of  irony,  sarcasm,  or  peculiar 
significance  in  his  manner.  He  went  on 
slowly :  — 

"When  I  struck  this  yer  camp  a  minit 
ago ;  when  I  seed  that  thar  ditch  meanderin' 
peaceful  like  through  the  street,  without  a 
hotel  or  free  saloon  or  express  office  on 
either  side;  with  the  smoke  just  a  curlin' 


88  BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

over  the  chimbley  of  that  log  shanty,  and 
the  bresh  just  set  fire  to  and  a  smoulderin' 
in  that  potato  patch  with  a  kind  o'  old-time 
stingin'  in  your  eyes  and  nose,  and  a  few 
women's  duds  just  a  flutterin'  on  a  line  by 
the  fence,  I  says  to  myself :  '  Bulger  —  this 
is  peace!  This  is  wot  you're  lookin'  for, 
Bulger  —  this  is  wot  you  're  wantin'  —  this 
is  wot  you  'II  hev  !  ' ' 

"You  say  you've  business  over  at  Big- 
wood.  What  business  ?"  said  Briggs. 

"It 's  a  peculiar  business,  young  fellow," 
returned  the  stranger,  gravely.  "Thar's 
different  men  ez  has  different  opinions  about 
it.  Some  allows  it 's  an  easy  business,  some 
allows  it 's  a  rough  business;  some  says  it 's 
a  sad  business,  others  says  it 's  gay  and  fes- 
tive. Some  wonders  ez  how  I  've  got  into 
it,  and  others  wonder  how  I  '11  ever  get  out 
of  it.  It 's  a  payin'  business  —  it 's  a  peace- 
ful sort  o'  business  when  left  to  itself.  It 's 
a  peculiar  business  —  a  business  that  sort  o' 
b'longs  to  me,  though  I  ain't  got  no  patent 
from  Washington  for  it.  It 's  my  own  busi- 
ness." He  paused,  rose,  and  saying,  "Let 's 
meander  over  and  take  a  look  at  that  empty 
cabin,  and  ef  she  suits  me,  why,  I  '11  plank 
down  a  slug  for  her  on  the  spot,  and  move 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  89 

in  to-morrow,"  walked  towards  the  door. 
"I'll  pick  up  suthin'  in  the  way  o'  boxes 
and  blankets  from  the  grocery,"  he  added, 
looking  at  Mosby,  "and  ef  thar 's  a  corner 
whar  I  kin  stand  my  gun  and  a  nail  to  hang 
up  my  revolver  —  why,  I  'm  all  thar!  " 

By  this  time  we  were  no  longer  aston- 
ished when  Briggs  rose  also,  and  not  only 
accompanied  the  sinister-looking  stranger 
to  the  empty  cabin,  but  assisted  him  in  ne- 
gotiating with  its  owner  for  a  fortnight's 
occupancy.  Nevertheless,  we  eagerly  as- 
sailed Briggs  on  his  return  for  some  expla- 
nation of  this  singular  change  in  his  attitude 
towards  the  stranger.  He  coolly  reminded 
us,  however,  that  while  his  intention  of  ex- 
cluding ruffianly  adventurers  from  the  camp 
remained  the  same,  he  had  no  right  to  go 
back  on  the  stranger's  sentiments,  which 
were  evidently  in  accord  with  our  own,  and 
although  Mr.  Bulger's  appearance  was  in- 
consistent with  them,  that  was  only  an  addi- 
tional reason  why  we  should  substitute  a 
mild  firmness  for  that  violence  which  we  all 
deprecated,  but  which  might  attend  his 
abrupt  dismissal.  We  were  all  satisfied 
except  Mosby,  who  had  not  yet  recovered 
from  Briggs' s  change  of  front,  which  he 


90  BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

was  pleased  to  call  "craw-fishing."  "  Seemed 
to  me  his  account  of  his  business  was  extra- 
ordinary satisfactory !  Sorter  filled  the  bill 
all  round  —  no  mistake  thar," — he  sug- 
gested, with  a  malicious  irony.  "I  like  a 
man  that 's  outspoken." 

"I  understood  him  very  well,"  said 
Briggs,  quietly. 

"In  course  you  did.  Only  when  you've 
settled  in  your  mind  whether  he  was  describ- 
ing horse-stealing  or  tract  -  distributing, 
mebbe  you  '11  let  me  know." 

It  would  seem,  however,  that  Briggs  did 
not  interrogate  the  stranger  again  regarding 
it,  nor  did  we,  who  were  quite  content  to 
leave  matters  in  Briggs 's  hands.  Enough 
that  Mr.  Bulger  moved  into  the  empty  cabin 
the  next  day,  and,  with  the  aid  of  a  few  old 
boxes  from  the  grocery,  which  he  quickly 
extemporized  into  tables  and  chairs,  and  the 
purchase  of  some  necessary  cooking-utensils, 
soon  made  himself  at  home.  The  rest  of 
the  camp,  now  thoroughly  aroused,  made  a 
point  of  leaving  their  work  in  the  ditches, 
whenever  they  could,  to  stroll  carelessly 
around  Bulger's  tenement  in  the  vague  hope 
of  satisfying  a  curiosity  that  had  become 
tormenting.  But  they  could  not  find  that 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  91 

he  was  doing  anything  of  a  suspicious  char- 
acter—  except,  perhaps,  from  the  fact  that 
it  was  not  outwardly  suspicious,  which  I 
grieve  to  say  did  not  lull  them  to  security. 
He  seemed  to  be  either  fixing  up  his  cabin 
or  smoking  in  his  doorway.  On  the  second 
day  he  checked  this  itinerant  curiosity  by 
taking  the  initiative  himself,  and  quietly 
walking  from  claim  to  claim  and  from  cabin 
to  cabin  with  a  pacific  but  by  no  means  a 
satisfying  interest.  The  shadow  of  his  tall 
figure  carrying  his  inseparable  gun,  which 
had  not  yet  apparently  "stood  in  the  cor- 
ner," falling  upon  an  excavated  bank  beside 
the  delving  miners,  gave  them  a  sense  of 
uneasiness  they  could  not  explain;  a  few 
characteristic  yells  of  boisterous  hilarity 
from  their  noontide  gathering  under  a  cotton  - 
wood  somehow  ceased  when  Mr.  Bulger 
was  seen  gravely  approaching,  and  his  cas- 
ual stopping  before  a  poker  party  in  the 
gulch  actually  caused  one  of  the  most  reck- 
less gamblers  to  weakly  recede  from  "a 
bluff  "  and  allow  his  adversary  to  sweep  the 
board.  After  this  it  was  felt  that  matters 
were  becoming  serious,  There  was  no  sub- 
sequent patroling  of  the  camp  before  the 
stranger's  cabin.  Their  curiosity  was  sin- 


92  BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

gularly  abated.  A  general  feeling  of  repul- 
sion, kept  within  bounds  partly  by  the 
absence  of  any  overt  act  from  Bulger,  and 
partly  by  an  inconsistent  over-consciousness 
of  his  shot-gun,  took  its  place.  But  an  un- 
expected occurrence  revived  it. 

One  evening,  as  the  usual  social  circle 
were  drawn  around  Mosby 's  stove,  the  lazy 
silence  was  broken  by  the  familiar  sounds 
of  pistol-shots  and  a  series  of  more  familiar 
shrieks  and  yells  from  the  rocky  hill  road. 
The  circle  quickly  recognized  the  voices  of 
their  old  friends  the  roysterers  and  gamblers 
from  Sawyer's  Dam;  they  as  quickly  recog- 
nized the  returning  shouts  here  and  there 
from  a  few  companions  who  were  welcoming 
them.  I  grieve  to  say  that  in  spite  of  their 
previous  attitude  of  reformation  a  smile  of 
gratified  expectancy  lit  up  the  faces  of  the 
younger  members,  and  even  the  older  ones 
glanced  dubiously  at  Briggs.  Mosby  made 
no  attempt  to  conceal  a  sigh  of  relief  as  he 
carefully  laid  out  an  extra  supply  of  glasses 
in  his  bar.  Suddenly  the  oncoming  yells 
ceased,  the  wild  gallop  of  hoofs  slackened 
into  a  trot,  and  finally  halted,  and  even  the 
responsive  shouts  of  the  camp  stopped  also. 
We  all  looked  vacantly  at  each  other;  Mosby 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  93 

leaped  over  his  counter  and  went  to  the 
door;  Briggs  followed  with  the  rest  of  us. 
The  night  was  dark,  and  it  was  a  few  min- 
utes before  we  could  distinguish  a  strag- 
gling, vague,  but  silent  procession  moving 
through  the  moist,  heavy  air  on  the  hill. 
But,  to  our  surprise,  it  was  moving  away 
from  us  —  absolutely  leaving  the  camp! 
We  were  still  staring  in  expectancy  when 
out  of  the  darkness  slowly  emerged  a  figure 
which  we  recognized  at  once  as  Captain 
Jim,  one  of  the  most  reckless  members  of 
our  camp.  Pushing  us  back  into  the  gro- 
cery he  entered  without  a  word,  closed  the 
door  behind  him,  and  threw  himself  vacantly 
into  a  chair.  We  at  once  pressed  around 
him.  He  looked  up  at  us  dazedly,  drew  a 
long  breath,  and  said  slowly :  — 

"It's  no  use,  gentlemen!  Suthin 's  got 
to  be  done  with  that  Bulger;  and  mighty 
quick." 

"What 's  the  matter?  "  we  asked  eagerly* 
"Matter!"  he-repeated,  passing  his  hand 
across  his  forehead.  "Matter!  Lookyere! 
Ye  all  of  you  heard  them  boys  from  Saw- 
yer's Dam  coming  over  the  hill?  Ye  heard 
their  music  —  mebbe  ye  heard  us  join  in 
the  chorus?  Well,  on  they  came  waltzing 


94  BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

down  the  hill,  like  old  times,  and  we  waitin' 
for  'em.  Then,  jest  as  they  passed  the  old 
cabin,  who  do  you  think  they  ran  right  into 
—  shooting-iron,  long  hair  and  mustache, 
and  all  that  —  standing  there  plump  in  the 
road?  —  why,  Bulger !  " 

"Well?" 

"Well!— Whatever  it  was  — don't  ask 
me  —  but,  dern  my  skin,  ef  after  a  word  or 
two  from  him  —  them  boys  just  stopped 
yellin',  turned  round  like  lambs,  and  rode 
away,  peaceful-like,  along  with  him.  We 
ran  after  them  a  spell,  still  yellin',  when 
that  thar  Bulger  faced  around,  said  to  us 
that  he  'd  '  come  down  here  for  quiet,'  and 
ef  he  couldn't  hev  it  he'd  have  to  leave 
with  those  gentlemen  who  wanted  it  too  ! 
And  I  'm  gosh  darned  ef  those  gentlemen  — 
you  know  'em  all  —  Patsey  Carpenter, 
Snap-shot  Harry,  and  the  others  —  ever 
said  a  darned  word,  but  kinder  nodded  '  So 
long  '  and  went  away!  " 

Our  astonishment  and  mystification  were 
complete ;  and  I  regret  to  say,  the  indigna- 
tion of  Captain  Jim  and  Mosby  equally  so. 
"  If  we  're  going  to  be  bossed  by  the  first 
new-comer,"  said  the  former,  gloomily,  "I 
reckon  we  might  as  well  take  our  chances 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  95 

with  the  Sawyer's  Dam  boys,  whom  we 
know." 

"Ef  we  are  going  to  hev  the  legitimate 
trade  of  Rattlesnake  interfered  with  by  the 
cranks  of  some  hidin'  horse -thief  or  retired 
road  agent,"  said  Mosby,  "we  might  as  well 
invite  the  hull  of  Joaquin  Murietta's  gang 
here  at  once !  But  I  suppose  this  is  part  o' 
Bulger's  particular  '  business,'  "  he  added, 
with  a  withering  glance  at  Briggs. 

"I  understand  it  all,"  said  Briggs,  qui- 
etly. "You  know  I  told  you  that  bullies 
couldn't  live  in  the  same  camp  together. 
That's  human  nature  —  and  that's  how 
plain  men  like  you  and  me  manage  to  scud 
along  without  getting  plugged.  You  see, 
Bulger  wasn't  going  to  hev  any  of  his  own 
kind  jumpin'  his  claim  here.  And  I  reckon 
he  was  pow'ful  enough  to  back  down  Saw- 
yer's Dam.  Anyhow,  the  bluff  told  —  and 
here  we  are  in  peace  and  quietness." 

"Until  he  lets  us  know  what  is  his  little 
game,"  sneered  Mosby. 

Nevertheless,  such  is  the  force  of  myste- 
rious power  that,  although  it  was  exercised 
against  what  we  firmly  believed  was  the  in- 
dependence of  the  camp,  it  extorted  a  certain 
respect  from  us.  A  few  thought  it  was  not 
Bret  Harte  4— V.  6 


96  BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

a  bad  thing  to  have  a  professional  bully, 
and  even  took  care  to  relate  the  discomfiture 
of  the  wicked  youth  of  Sawyer's  Dam  for 
the  benefit  of  a  certain  adjacent  and  power- 
ful camp  who  had  looked  down  upon  us. 
He,  himself,  returning  the  same  evening 
from  his  self-imposed  escort,  vouchsafed  no 
other  reason  than  the  one  he  had  already 
given.  Preposterous  as  it  seemed,  we  were 
obliged  to  accept  it,  and  the  still  more  pre- 
posterous inference  that  he  had  sought  Rat- 
tlesnake Camp  solely  for  the  purpose  of 
acquiring  and  securing  its  peace  and  quiet- 
ness. Certainly  he  had  no  other  occupa- 
tion ;  the  little  work  he  did  upon  the  tailings 
of  the  abandoned  claim  which  went  with  his 
little  cabin  was  scarcely  a  pretense.  He 
rode  over  on  certain  days  to  Bigwood  on 
account  of  his  business,  but  no  one  had  ever 
seen  him  there,  nor  could  the  description  of 
his  manner  and  appearance  evoke  any  in- 
formation from  the  Bigwoodians.  It  re- 
mained a  mystery. 

It  had  also  been  feared  that  the  advent  of 
Bulger  would  intensify  that  fear  and  dislike 
of  riotous  Rattlesnake  which  the  two  fami- 
lies had  shown,  and  which  was  the  origin  of 
Briggs's  futile  attempt  at  reformation.  But 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  97 

it  was  discovered  that  since  his  arrival  the 
young  girls  had  shown  less  timidity  in  enter- 
ing the  camp,  and  had  even  exchanged  some 
polite  conversation  and  good-humoured  badi- 
nage with  its  younger  and  more  impressible 
members.  Perhaps  this  tended  to  make 
these  youths  more  observant,  for  a  few  days 
later,  when  the  vexed  question  of  Bulger's 
business  was  again  under  discussion,  one  of 
them  remarked,  gloomily :  — 

"I  reckon  there  ain't  no  doubt  what  he  's 
here  for! " 

The  youthful  prophet  was  instantly  sat 
upon  after  the  fashion  of  all  elderly  critics 
since  Job's.  Nevertheless,  after  a  pause  he 
was  permitted  to  explain. 

"Only  this  morning,  when  Lance  Fores- 
ter and  me  were  chirping  with  them  gals 
out  on  the  hill,  who  should  we  see  hanging 
around  in  the  bush  but  that  cussed  Bulger! 
We  allowed  at  first  that  it  might  be  only  a 
new  style  of  his  interferin',  so  we  took  no 
notice,  except  to  pass  a  few  remarks  about 
listeners  and  that  sort  o'  thing,  and  perhaps 
to  bedevil  the  girls  a  little  more  than  we  'd 
hev  done  if  we  'd  been  alone.  Well,  they 
laughed,  and  we  laughed  —  and  that  was 
the  end  of  it.  But  this  afternoon,  as  Lance 


98  BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

and  me  were  meandering  down  by  their 
cabin,  we  sorter  turned  into  the  woods  to 
wait  till  they  'd  come  out.  Then  all  of  a 
suddent  Lance  stopped  as  rigid  as  a  pointer 
that 's  flushed  somethin',  and  says,  'B'gosh ! ' 
And  thar,  under  a  big  redwood,  sat  that 
slimy  hypocrite  Bulger,  twisting  his  long 
mustaches  and  smiling  like  clockwork  along- 
side o'  little  Meely  Baker  —  you  know  her, 
the  pootiest  of  the  two  sisters  —  and  she 
smilin'  back  on  him.  Think  of  it !  —  that 
unknown,  unwashed,  long-haired  tramp  and 
bully,  who  must  be  forty  if  a  day,  and  that 
innocent  gal  of  sixteen.  It  was  simply  dis- 
gustin' !  " 

I  need  not  say  that  the  older  cynics  and 
critics  already  alluded  to  at  once  improved 
the  occasion.  What  more  could  be  ex- 
pected? Women,  the  world  over,  were 
noted  for  this  sort  of  thing!  This  long- 
haired, swaggering  bully,  with  his  air  of 
mystery,  had  captivated  them,  as  he  always 
had  done  since  the  days  of  Homer.  Simple 
merit,  which  sat  lowly  in  bar-rooms,  and 
conceived  projects  for  the  public  good 
around  the  humble,  unostentatious  stove, 
was  nowhere!  Youth  could  not  too  soon 
learn  this  bitter  lesson.  And  in  this  case 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  99 

youth  too,  perhaps,  was  right  in  its  conjec- 
tures, for  this  was,  no  doubt,  the  little 
game  of  the  perfidious  Bulger.  We  recalled 
the  fact  that  his  unhallowed  appearance  in 
camp  was  almost  coincident  with  the  arrival 
of  the  two  families.  We  glanced  at  Briggs ; 
to  our  amazement,  for  the  first  time  he 
looked  seriously  concerned.  But  Mosby  in 
the  mean  time  leaned  his  elbows  lazily  over 
the  counter  and,  in  a  slow  voice,  added  fuel 
to  the  flame. 

"I  wouldn't  hev  spoken  of  it  before,"  he 
said,  with  a  sidelong  glance  at  Briggs,  "for 
it  might  be  all  in  the  line  o'  Bulger's  '  busi- 
ness,' but  suthin'  happened  the  other  night 
that,  for  a  minit,  got  me!  I  was  passin' 
the  Bakers'  shanty,  and  I  heard  one  of  them 
gals  a-singing  a  camp-meeting  hymn.  I 
don't  calkilate  to  run  agin  you  young  fellers 
in  any  sparkin'  or  canoodlin'  that 's  goin' 
on,  but  her  voice  sounded  so  pow'ful  sooth- 
in'  and  pretty  thet  I  jest  stood  there  and 
listened.  Then  the  old  woman  —  old  Mo- 
ther Baker  —  she  joined  in,  and  I  listened 
too.  And  then  —  dern  my  skin !  —  but  a 
man's  voice  joined  in  —  jest  belching  outer 
that  cabin !  —  and  I  sorter  lifted  myself  up 
and  kem  away. 


100  BULGES' S  REPUTATION. 

"That  voice,  gentlemen,"  said  Mosby,  lin- 
gering artistically  as  he  took  up  a  glass  and 
professionally  eyed  it  before  wiping  it  with 
his  towel,  "that  voice,  cumf'bly  fixed  thar 
in  thet  cabin  among  them  wimen  folks,  was 
Bulger's! " 

Briggs  got  up,  with  his  eyes  looking  the 
darker  for  his  flushed  face.  "Gentlemen," 
he  said  huskily,  "thar's  only  one  thing  to 
be  done.  A  lot  of  us  have  got  to  ride  over 
to  Sawyer's  Dam  to-morrow  morning  and 
pick  up  as  many  square  men  as  we  can 
muster;  there's  a  big  camp-meeting  goin' 
on  there,  and  there  won't  be  no  difficulty  in 
that.  When  we  've  got  a  big  enough  crowd 
to  show  we  mean  business,  we  must  march 
back  here  and  ride  Bulger  out  of  this  camp ! 
I  don't  hanker  arter  Vigilance  Committees, 
as  a  rule  —  it 's  a  rough  remedy  —  it 's  like 
drinkin'  a  quart  o'  whisky  agin  rattlesnake 
poison  —  but  it 's  got  to  be  done !  We 
don't  mind  being  sold  ourselves  —  but  when 
it  comes  to  our  standin'  by  and  seein'  the 
only  innocent  people  in  Rattlesnake  given 
away  —  we  kick !  Bulger  's  got  to  be  fired 
outer  this  camp !  And  he  will  be !  " 

But  he  was  not. 

For  when,  the  next  morning,  a  determined 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  101 

and  thoughtful  procession  of  the  best  and 
most  characteristic  citizens  of  Rattlesnake 
Camp  filed  into  Sawyer's  Dam,  they  found 
that  their  mysterious  friends  had  disap- 
peared, although  they  met  with  a  fraternal 
but  subdued  welcome  from  the  general 
camp.  But  any  approach  to  the  subject  of 
their  visit,  however,  was  received  with  a 
chilling  disapproval.  Did  they  not  know 
that  lawlessness  of  any  kind,  even  under 
the  rude  mantle  of  frontier  justice,  was  to 
be  deprecated  and  scouted  when  a  "means 
of  salvation,  a  power  of  regeneration,"  such 
as  was  now  sweeping  over  Sawyer's  Dam, 
was  at  hand?  Could  they  not  induce  this 
man  who  was  to  be  violently  deported  to 
accompany  them  willingly  to  Sawyer's  Dam 
and  subject  himself  to  the  powerful  influence 
of  the  "revival "  then  in  full  swing? 

The  Rattlesnake  boys  laughed  bitterly, 
and  described  the  man  of  whom  they  talked 
so  lightly;  but  in  vain.  "It 's  no  use,  gen- 
tlemen," said  a  more  worldly  bystander,  in 
a  lower  voice,  "the  camp-meetin  's  got  a 
strong  grip  here,  and  betwixt  you  and  me 
there  ain't  no  wonder.  For  the  man  that 
runs  it  —  the  big  preacher  —  has  got  new 
ways  and  methods  that  fetches  the  boys 


102  BULGER'S  REPUTATION. 

every  time.  He  don't  preach  no  cut-and- 
dried  gospel;  he  don't  carry  around  no  slop- 
shop robes  and  clap  'em  on  you  whether 
they  fit  or  not;  but  he  samples  and  measures 
the  camp  afore  he  wades  into  it.  He  scouts 
and  examines;  he  ain't  no  mere  Sunday 
preacher  with  a  comfortable  house  and  once- 
a-week  church,  but  he  gives  up  his  days  and 
nights  to  it,  and  makes  his  family  work 
with  him,  and  even  sends  'em  forward  to 
explore  the  field.  And  he  ain't  no  white- 
choker  shadbelly  either,  but  fits  himself, 
like  his  gospel,  to  the  men  he  works  among. 
Ye  ought  to  hear  him  afore  you  go.  His 
tent  is  just  out  your  way.  I  '11  go  with 
you." 

Too  dejected  to  offer  any  opposition,  and 
perhaps  a  little  curious  to  see  this  man  who 
had  unwittingly  frustrated  their  design  of 
lynching  Bulger,  they  halted  at  the  outer 
fringe  of  worshipers  who  packed  the  huge 
inclosure.  They  had  not  time  to  indulge 
their  cynicisms  over  this  swaying  mass  of 
emotional,  half-thinking,  and  almost  irre- 
sponsible beings,  nor  to  detect  any  similarity 
between  their  extreme  methods  and  the 
scheme  of  redemption  they  themselves  were 
seeking,  for  in  a  few  moments,  apparently 


BULGER'S  REPUTATION.  103 

lifted  to  his  feet  on  a  wave  of  religious  ex- 
ultation, the  famous  preacher  arose.  The 
men  of  Rattlesnake  gasped  for  breath. 

It  was  Bulger ! 

But  Briggs  quickly  recovered  himself. 
"By  what  name,"  said  he,  turning  passion- 
ately towards  his  guide,  "does  this  man  — 
this  impostor  —  call  himself  here?" 

"Baker." 

"Baker?"  echoed  the  Rattlesnake  con- 
tingent. 

"Baker?"  repeated  Lance  Forester,  with 
a  ghastly  smile. 

"Yes,"  returned  their  guide.  "You 
oughter  know  it  too !  For  he  sent  his  wife 
and  daughters  over,  after  his  usual  style,  to 
sample  your  camp,  a  week  ago!  Come, 
now,  what  are  you  givin'  us?  " 


IN  THE  TITLES. 

HE  had  never  seen  a  steamboat  in  his 
life.  Born  and  reared  in  one  of  the  West- 
ern Territories,  far  from  a  navigable  river, 
he  had  only  known  the  "dug-out"  or  canoe 
as  a  means  of  conveyance  across  the  scant 
streams  whose  fordable  waters  made  even 
those  scarcely  a  necessity.  The  long,  nar- 
row, hooded  wagon,  drawn  by  swaying  oxen, 
known  familiarly  as  a  "prairie  schooner," 
in  which  he  journeyed  across  the  plains  to 
California  in  '53,  did  not  help  his  concep- 
tion by  that  nautical  figure.  And  when  at 
last  he  dropped  upon  the  land  of  promise 
through  one  of  the  Southern  mountain  passes 
he  halted  all  unconsciously  upon  the  low 
banks  of  a  great  yellow  river  amidst  a  tan- 
gled brake  of  strange,  reed-like  grasses  that 
were  unknown  to  him.  The  river,  broaden- 
ing as  it  debouched  through  many  channels 
into  a  lordly  bay,  seemed  to  him  the  ultima 
thule  of  his  journey  ings.  Unyoking  his 
oxen  on  the  edge  of  the  luxuriant  meadows 


IN   THE  TULES.  105 

which  blended  with  scarcely  any  line  of  de- 
marcation into  the  great  stream  itself,  he 
found  the  prospect  "good"  according  to  his 
lights  and  prairial  experiences,  and,  con- 
verting his  halted  wagon  into  a  temporary 
cabin,  he  resolved  to  rest  here  and  "settle." 
There  was  little  difficulty  in  so  doing. 
The  cultivated  clearings  he  had  passed  were 
few  and  far  between;  the  land  would  be  his 
by  discovery  and  occupation ;  his  habits  of 
loneliness  and  self-reliance  made  him  inde- 
pendent of  neighbors.  He  took  his  first 
meal  in  his  new  solitude  under  a  spreading 
willow,  but  so  near  his  natural  boundary 
that  the  waters  gurgled  and  oozed  in  the 
reeds  but  a  few  feet  from  him.  The  sun 
sank,  deepening  the  gold  of  the  river  until  it 
might  have  been  the  stream  of  Pactolus  itself. 
But  Martin  Morse  had  no  imagination ;  he 
was  not  even  a  gold-seeker;  he  had  simply 
obeyed  the  roving  instincts  of  the  frontiers- 
man in  coming  hither.  The  land  was  virgin 
and  unoccupied;  it  was  his;  he  was  alone. 
These  questions  settled,  he  smoked  his  pipe 
with  less  concern  over  his  three  thousand 
miles'  transference  of  habitation  than  the 
man  of  cities  who  had  moved  into  a  next 
street.  When  the  sun  sank,  he  rolled  him- 


106  IN  THE  TULES. 

self  in  his  blankets  in  the  wagon  bed  and 
went  quietly  to  sleep. 

But  he  was  presently  awakened  by  some- 
thing which  at  first  he  could  not  determine 
to  be  a  noise  or  an  intangible  sensation.  It 
was  a  deep  throbbing  through  the  silence  of 
the  night  —  a  pulsation  that  seemed  even  to 
be  communicated  to  the  rude  bed  whereon 
he  lay.  As  it  came  nearer  it  separated  it- 
self into  a  labored,  monotonous  panting, 
continuous,  but  distinct  from  an  equally 
monotonous  but  fainter  beating  of  the  waters, 
as  if  the  whole  track  of  the  river  were  being 
coursed  and  trodden  by  a  multitude  of 
swiftly-trampling  feet.  A  strange  feeling 
took  possession  of  him  —  half  of  fear,  half 
of  curious  expectation.  It  was  coming 
nearer.  He  rose,  leaped  hurriedly  from 
the  wagon,  and  ran  to  the  bank.  The 
night  was  dark ;  at  first  he  saw  nothing  be- 
fore him  but  the  steel-black  sky  pierced 
with  far-spaced,  irregularly  scattered  stars. 
Then  there  seemed  to  be  approaching  him, 
from  the  left,  another  and  more  symmetri- 
cal constellation  —  a  few  red  and  blue  stars 
high  above  the  river,  with  three  compact 
lines  of  larger  planetary  lights  flashing  to- 
wards him  and  apparently  on  his  own  level. 


IN  THE  TULES.  107 

It  was  almost  upon  him;  he  involuntarily 
drew  back  as  the  strange  phenomenon  swept 
abreast  of  where  he  stood,  and  resolved  it- 
self into  a  dark  yet  airy  bulk,  whose  vague- 
ness, topped  by  enormous  towers,  was  yet 
illuminated  by  those  open  squares  of  light 
that  he  had  taken  for  stars,  but  which  he 
saw  now  were  brilliantly -lit  windows. 

Their  vivid  rays  shot  through  the  reeds 
and  sent  broad  bands  across  the  meadow, 
the  stationary  wagon,  and  the  slumbering 
oxen.  But  all  this  was  nothing  to  the  inner 
life  they  disclosed  through  lifted  curtains 
and  open  blinds,  which  was  the  crowning 
revelation  of  this  strange  and  wonderful 
spectacle.  Elegantly  dressed  men  and  wo- 
men moved  through  brilliantly  lit  and  elabo- 
rately gilt  saloons ;  in  one  a  banquet  seemed 
to  be  spread,  served  by  white -jacketed  ser- 
vants; in  another  were  men  playing  cards 
around  marble-topped  tables;  in  another 
the  light  flashed  back  again  from  the  mir- 
rors and  glistening  glasses  and  decanters  of 
a  gorgeous  refreshment  saloon;  in  smaller 
openings  there  was  the  shy  disclosure  of 
dainty  white  curtains  and  velvet  lounges  of 
more  intimate  apartments. 

Martin  Morse  stood  enthralled  and  mysti- 


108  IN   THE  TULES. 

fied.  It  was  as  if  some  invisible  Asmodeus 
had  revealed  to  this  simple  frontiersman  a 
world  of  which  he  had  never  dreamed.  It 
was  the  world  —  a  world  of  which  he  knew 
nothing  in  his  simple,  rustic  habits  and 
profound  Western  isolation  —  sweeping  by 
him  with  the  rush  of  an  unknown  planet. 
In  another  moment  it  was  gone;  a  shower 
of  sparks  shot  up  from  one  of  the  towers 
and  fell  all  around  him,  and  then  vanished, 
even  as  he  remembered  the  set  piece  of 
"Fourth  of  July"  fireworks  had  vanished 
in  his  own  rural  town  when  he  was  a  boy. 
The  darkness  fell  with  it  too.  But  such 
was  his  utter  absorption  and  breathless  pre- 
occupation that  only  a  cold  chill  recalled 
him  to  himself,  and  he  found  he  was  stand- 
ing mid-leg  deep  in  the  surge  cast  over  the 
low  banks  by  this  passage  of  the  first  steam- 
boat he  had  ever  seen ! 

He  waited  for  it  the  next  night,  when  it 
appeared  a  little  later  from  the  opposite 
direction  on  its  return  trip.  He  watched 
it  the  next  night  and  the  next.  Hereafter 
he  never  missed  it,  coming  or  going  —  what- 
ever the  hard  and  weary  preoccupations  of 
his  new  and  lonely  life.  He  felt  he  could  not 
have  slept  without  seeing  it  go  by.  Oddly 


IN  THE  TULES.  109 

enough,  his  interest  and  desire  did  not  go 
further.  Even  had  he  the  time  and  money 
to  spend  in  a  passage  on  the  boat,  and  thus 
actively  realize  the  great  world  of  which  he 
had  only  these  rare  glimpses,  a  certain 
proud,  rustic  shyness  kept  him  from  it.  It 
was  not  his  world ;  he  could  not  affront  the 
snubs  that  his  ignorance  and  inexperience 
would  have  provoked,  and  he  was  dimly 
conscious,  as  so  many  of  us  are  in  our  igno- 
rance, that  in  mingling  with  it  he  would 
simply  lose  the  easy  privileges  of  alien  criti- 
cism. For  there  was  much  that  he  did  not 
understand,  and  some  things  that  grated 
upon  his  lonely  independence. 

One  night,  a  lighter  one  than  those  pre- 
vious, he  lingered  a  little  longer  in  the 
moonlight  to  watch  the  phosphorescent  wake 
of  the  retreating  boat.  Suddenly  it  struck 
him  that  there  was  a  certain  irregular  splash- 
ing in  the  water,  quite  different  from  the 
regular,  diagonally  crossing  surges  that  the 
boat  swept  upon  the  bank.  Looking  at  it 
more  intently,  he  saw  a  black  object  turn- 
ing in  the  water  like  a  porpoise,  and  then 
the  unmistakable  uplifting  of  a  black  arm 
in  an  unskillful  swimmer's  overhand  stroke. 
It  was  a  struggling  man.  But  it  was  quickly 


110  IN  THE  TULES. 

evident  that  the  current  was  too  strong  and 
the  turbulence  of  the  shallow  water  too  great 
for  his  efforts.  Without  a  moment's  hesi- 
tation, clad  as  he  was  in  only  his  shirt  and 
trousers,  Morse  strode  into  the  reeds,  and 
the  next  moment,  with  a  call  of  warning, 
was  swimming  towards  the  now  wildly  strug- 
gling figure.  But,  from  some  unknown  rea- 
son, as  Morse  approached  him  nearer  the 
man  uttered  some  incoherent  protest  and 
desperately  turned  away,  throwing  off 
Morse's  extended  arm. 

Attributing  this  only  to  the  vague  con- 
vulsions of  a  drowning  man,  Morse,  a  skilled 
swimmer,  managed  to  clutch  his  shoulder, 
and  propelled  him  at  arm's  length,  still 
struggling,  apparently  with  as  much  reluc- 
tance as  incapacity,  towards  the  bank.  As 
their  feet  touched  the  reeds  and  slimy  bot- 
tom the  man's  resistance  ceased,  and  he 
lapsed  quite  listlessly  in  Morse's  arms. 
Half  lifting,  half  dragging  his  burden,  he 
succeeded  at  last  in  gaining  the  strip  of 
meadow,  and  deposited  the  unconscious  man 
beneath  the  willow  tree.  Then  he  ran  to 
his  wagon  for  whiskey. 

But,  to  his  surprise,  on  his  return  the 
man  was  already  sitting  up  and  wringing 


IN  THE  TITLES.  Ill 

the  water  from  his  clothes.  He  then  saw 
for  the  first  time,  by  the  clear  moonlight, 
that  the  stranger  was  elegantly  dressed  and 
of  striking  appearance,  and  was  clearly  a 
part  of  that  bright  and  fascinating  world 
which  Morse  had  been  contemplating  in  his 
solitude.  He  eagerly  took  the  proffered  tin 
cup  and  drank  the  whiskey.  Then  he  rose 
to  his  feet,  staggered  a  few  steps  forward, 
and  glanced  curiously  around  him  at  the 
still  motionless  wagon,  the  few  felled  trees 
and  evidence  of  "clearing,"  and  even  at  the 
rude  cabin  of  logs  and  canvas  just  begin- 
ning to  rise  from  the  ground  a  few  paces 
distant,  and  said,  impatiently:  — 

"Where  the  devil  am  I?" 

Morse  hesitated.  He  was  unable  to  name 
the  locality  of  his  dwelling-place.  He  an- 
swered briefly :  — 

"On  the  right  bank  of  the  Sacramento." 

The  stranger  turned  upon  him  a  look  of 
suspicion  not  unmingled  with  resentment. 
"Oh!  "  he  said,  with  ironical  gravity,  "and 
I  suppose  that  this  water  you  picked  me  out 
of  was  the  Sacramento  River.  Thank  you  !  " 

Morse,  with  slow  Western  patience,  ex- 
plained that  he  had  only  settled  there  three 
weeks  ago,  and  the  place  had  no  name. 


112  IN   THE  TULES. 

"What's  your  nearest  town,  then?" 

"Thar  ain't  any.  Thar  's  a  blacksmith's 
shop  and  grocery  at  the  cross-roads,  twenty 
miles  further  on,  but  it 's  got  no  name  as 
I  've  heard  on." 

The  stranger's  look  of  suspicion  passed. 
"Well,"  he  said,  in  an  imperative  fashion, 
which,  however,  seemed  as  much  the  result 
of  habit  as  the  occasion,  "I  want  a  horse, 
and  mighty  quick,  too." 

"H'aint  got  any." 

"No  horse?  How  did  you  get  to  this 
place?" 

Morse  pointed  to  the  slumbering  oxen. 

The  stranger  again  stared  curiously  at 
him.  After  a  pause  he  said,  with  a  half- 
pitying,  half -humorous  smile:  "Pike  — 
aren't  you?  " 

Whether  Morse  did  or  did  not  know 
that  this  current  California  slang  for  a  deni- 
zen of  the  bucolic  West  implied  a  certain 
contempt,  he  replied  simply :  — 

"I  'm  from  Pike  County,  Mizzouri." 

"Well,"  said  the  stranger,  resuming  his 
impatient  manner,  "you  must  beg  or  steal 
a  horse  from  your  neighbors." 

"Thar  ain't  any  neighbor  nearer  than  fif- 
teen miles." 


IN   THE   TULES.  113 

"Then  send  fifteen  miles!  Stop."  He 
opened  his  still  clinging  shirt  and  drew  out 
a  belt  pouch,  which  he  threw  to  Morse. 
"There!  there's  two  hundred  and  fifty 
dollars  in  that.  Now,  I  want  a  horse. 
Sale ?  " 

"Thar  ain't  anyone  to  send,"  said  Morse, 
quietly. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say  you  are  all  alone 
here?" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  fished  me  out  —  all  by  your- 
self?" 

"Yes." 

The  stranger  again  examined  him  curi- 
ously. Then  he  suddenly  stretched  out  his 
hand  and  grasped  his  companion's. 

"All  right;  if  you  can't  send,  I  reckon 
I  can  manage  to  walk  over  there  to  -  mor- 
row." 

"I  was  goin'  on  to  say,"  said  Morse,  sim- 
ply, "that  if  you'll  lie  by  to-night,  I'll 
start  over  sun  up,  after  puttin'  out  the  cat- 
tle, and  fetch  you  back  a  horse  afore  noon." 

"That's  enough."  He,  however,  re- 
mained looking  curiously  at  Morse.  "Did 
you  never  hear,"  he  said,  with  a  singular 
smile,  "that  it  was  about  the  meanest  kind 


114  IN   THE  TULES. 

of  luck  that  could  happen  to  you  to  save  a 
drowning  man?" 

4'No,"  said  Morse,  simply.  "I  reckon 
it  orter  be  the  meanest  if  you  didn't." 

"That  depends  upon  the  man  you  save," 
said  the  stranger,  with  the  same  ambiguous 
smile,  "and  whether  the  saving  him  is  only 
putting  things  off.  Look  here,"  he  added, 
with  an  abrupt  return  to  his  imperative 
style,  "can't  you  give  me  some  dry  clothes?  " 

Morse  brought  him  a  pair  of  overalls  and 
a  "hickory  shirt,"  well  worn,  but  smelling 
strongly  of  a  recent  wash  with  coarse  soap. 
The  stranger  put  them  on  while  his  compan- 
ion busied  himself  in  collecting  a  pile  of 
sticks  and  dry  leaves. 

"What's  that  for?"  said  the  stranger, 
suddenly. 

"A  fire  to  dry  your  clothes." 

The  stranger  calmly  kicked  the  pile  aside. 

"Not  any  fire  to-night  if  I  know  it,"  he 
said,  brusquely.  Before  Morse  could  resent 
his  quickly  changing  moods  he  continued,  in 
another  tone,  dropping  to  an  easy  reclining 
position  beneath  the  tree,  "Now,  tell  me  all 
about  yourself,  and  what  you  are  doing 
here." 

Thus   commanded,    Morse    patiently  re- 


IN   THE  TULES.  115 

peated  his  story  from  the  time  he  had  left 
his  backwoods  cabin  to  his  selection  of  the 
river  bank  for  a  "location."  He  pointed 
out  the  rich  quality  of  this  alluvial  bottom 
and  its  adaptability  for  the  raising  of  stock, 
which  he  hoped  soon  to  acquire.  The 
stranger  smiled  grimly,  raised  himself  to  a 
sitting  position,  and,  taking  a  penknife  from 
his  damp  clothes,  began  to  clean  his  nails 
in  the  bright  moonlight  —  an  occupation 
which  made  the  simple  Morse  wander 
vaguely  in  his  narration. 

"And  you  don't  know  that  this  hole  will 
give  you  chills  and  fever  till  you  '11  shake 
yourself  out  of  your  boots?  " 

Morse  had  lived  before  in  aguish  districts, 
and  had  no  fear. 

"And  you  never  heard  that  some  night 
the  whole  river  will  rise  up  and  walk  over 
you  and  your  cabin  and  your  stock?  " 

"No.  For  I  reckon  to  move  my  shanty 
farther  back." 

The  man  shut  up  his  penknife  with  a 
click  and  rose. 

"  If  you  ' ve  got  to  get  up  at  sunrise,  we  'd 
better  be  turning  in.  I  suppose  you  can 
give  me  a  pair  of  blankets?  " 

Morse  pointed  to  the  wagon.     "Thar  's  a 


116  IN   THE  TULES. 

shakedown  in  the  wagon  bed;  you  kin  lie 
there."  Nevertheless  he  hesitated,  and, 
with  the-  inconsequence  and  abruptness  of 
a  shy  man,  continued  the  previous  conversa- 
tion. 

"I  shouldn't  like  to  move  far  away,  for 
them  steamboats  is  pow'ful  kempany  o' 
nights.  I  never  seed  one  afore  I  kem  here," 
and  then,  with  the  inconsistency  of  a  re- 
served man,  and  without  a  word  of  further 
preliminary,  he  launched  into  a  confidential 
disclosure  of  his  late  experiences.  The 
stranger  listened  with  a  singular  interest 
and  a  quietly  searching  eye. 

"Then  you  were  watching  the  boat  very 
closely  just  now  when  you  saw  me.  What 
else  did  you  see?  Anything  before  that  — 
before  you  saw  me  in  the  water?" 

"No  —  the  boat  had  got  well  off  before  I 
saw  you  at  all." 

"Ah,"  said  the  stranger.  "Well,  I'm 
going  to  turn  in."  He  walked  to  the  wagon, 
mounted  it,  and  by  the  time  that  Morse  had 
reached  it  with  his  wet  clothes  he  was  al- 
ready wrapped  in  the  blankets.  A  moment 
later  he  seemed  to  be  in  a  profound  slumber. 

It  was  only  then,  when  his  guest  was  ly- 
ing helplessly  at  his  mercy,  that  he  began 


IN   THE  TULES.  Ill 

to  realize  his  strange  experiences.  The 
domination  of  this  man  had  been  so  com- 
plete that  Morse,  although  by  nature  inde- 
pendent and  self-reliant,  had  not  permitted 
himself  to  question  his  right  or  to  resent  hia 
rudeness.  He  had  accepted  his  guest's  care- 
less or  premeditated  silence  regarding  the 
particulars  of  his  accident  as  a  matter  of 
course,  and  had  never  dreamed  of  question- 
ing him.  That  it  was  a  natural  accident  of 
that  great  world  so  apart  from  his  own  ex- 
periences he  did  not  doubt,  and  thought  no 
more  about  it.  The  advent  of  the  man 
himself  was  greater  to  him  than  the  causes 
which  brought  him  there.  He  was  as  yet 
quite  unconscious  of  the  complete  fascina- 
tion this  mysterious  stranger  held  over  him, 
but  he  found  himself  shyly  pleased  with 
even  the  slight  interest  he  had  displayed  in 
his  affairs,  and  his  hand  felt  yet  warm  and 
tingling  from  his  sudden  soft  but  expressive 
grasp,  as  if  it  had  been  a  woman's.  There 
is  a  simple  intuition  of  friendship  in  some 
lonely,  self -abstracted  natures  that  is  nearly 
akin  to  love  at  first  sight.  Even  the  audaci- 
ties and  insolence  of  this  stranger  affected 
Morse  as  he  might  have  been  touched  and 
captivated  by  the  coquetries  or  imperious- 


118  IN   THE  TULES. 

ness  of  some  bucolic  virgin.  And  this  re- 
served and  shy  frontiersman  found  himself 
that  night  sleepless,  and  hovering  with  an 
abashed  timidity  and  consciousness  around 
the  wagon  that  sheltered  his  guest,  as  if  he 
had  been  a  very  Corydon  watching  the 
moonlit  couch  of  some  slumbering  Ama- 
ryllis. 

He  was  off  by  daylight  —  after  having 
placed  a  rude  breakfast  by  the  side  of  the 
still  sleeping  guest  —  and  before  mid-day 
he  had  returned  with  a  horse.  When  he 
handed  the  stranger  his  pouch,  less  the 
amount  he  had  paid  for  the  horse,  the  man 
said  curtly  — 

"What's  that  for?" 

"Your  change.  I  paid  only  fifty  dollars 
for  the  horse." 

The  stranger  regarded  him  with  his  pe- 
culiar smile.  Then,  replacing  the  pouch  in 
his  belt,  he  shook  Morse's  hand  again  and 
mounted  the  horse. 

"So  your  name's  Martin  Morse!  Well 
—  good-by,  Morsey !  " 

Morse  hesitated.  A  blush  rose  to  his 
dark  cheek.  "You  did  n't  tell  me  your 
name,"  he  said.  " In  case  "  — 

"In  case  I'm  wanted?    Well,  you  can 


IN   THE  TULES.  119 

call  me  Captain  Jack."  He  smiled,  and, 
nodding  his  head,  put  spurs  to  his  mustang 
and  cantered  away. 

Morse  did  not  do  much  work  that  day, 
falling  into  abstracted  moods  and  living 
over  his  experiences  of  the  previous  night, 
until  he  fancied  he  could  almost  see  his 
strange  guest  again.  The  narrow  strip  of 
meadow  was  haunted  by  him.  There  was 
the  tree  under  which  he  had  first  placed 
him,  and  that  was  where  he  had  seen  him 
sitting  up  in  his  dripping  but  well -fitting 
clothes.  In  the  rough  garments  he  had 
worn  and  returned  lingered  a  new  scent  of 
some  delicate  soap,  overpowering  the  strong 
alkali  flavor  of  his  own.  He  was  early  by 
the  river  side,  having  a  vague  hope,  he 
knew  not  why,  that  he  should  again  see  him 
and  recognize  him  among  the  passengers. 
He  was  wading  out  among  the  reeds,  in  the 
faint  light  of  the  rising  moon,  recalling  the 
exact  spot  where  he  had  first  seen  the 
stranger,  when  he  was  suddenly  startled  by 
the  rolling  over  in  the  water  of  some  black 
object  that  had  caught  against  the  bank, 
but  had  been  dislodged  by  his  movements. 
To  his  horror  it  bore  a  faint  resemblance  to 
his  first  vision  of  the  preceding  night.  But 


120  IAT   THE  TULES. 

a  second  glance  at  the  helplessly  floating 
hair  and  bloated  outline  showed  him  that  it 
was  a  dead  man,  and  of  a  type  and  build 
far  different  from  his  former  companion. 
There  was  a  bruise  upon  his  matted  fore- 
head and  an  enormous  wound  in  his  throat 
already  washed  bloodless,  white,  and  waxen. 
An  inexplicable  fear  came  upon  him,  not  at 
the  sight  of  the  corpse,  for  he  had  been  in 
Indian  massacres  and  had  rescued  bodies 
mutilated  beyond  recognition;  but  from 
some  moral  dread  that,  strangely  enough, 
quickened  and  deepened  with  the  far-off 
pant  of  the  advancing  steamboat.  Scarcely 
knowing  why,  he  dragged  the  body  hurriedly 
ashore,  concealing  it  in  the  reeds,  as  if  he 
were  disposing  of  the  evidence  of  his  own 
crime.  Then,  to  his  preposterous  terror, 
he  noticed  that  the  panting  of  the  steam- 
boat and  the  beat  of  its  paddles  were  "  slow- 
ing "  as  the  vague  bulk  came  in  sight,  until 
a  huge  wave  from  the  suddenly  arrested 
wheels  sent  a  surge  like  an  enormous  heart- 
beat pulsating  through  the  sedge  that  half 
submerged  him.  The  flashing  of  three  or 
four  lanterns  on  deck  and  the  motionless 
line  of  lights  abreast  of  him  dazzled  his 
eyes,  but  he  knew  that  the  low  fringe  of 


IN  THE  TULES.  121 

willows  hid  his  house  and  wagon  completely 
from  view.  A  vague  murmur  of  voices 
from  the  deck  was  suddenly  over-ridden  by 
a  sharp  order,  and  to  his  relief  the  slowly 
revolving^  wheels  again  sent  a  pulsation 
through  the  water,  and  the  great  fabric 
moved  solemnly  away.  A  sense  of  relief 
came  over  him,  he  knew  not  why,  and  he 
was  conscious  that  for  the  first  time  he  had 
not  cared  to  look  at  the  boat. 

When  the  moon  arose  he  again  examined 
the  body,  and  took  from  its  clothing  a  few 
articles  of  identification  and  some  papers  of 
formality  and  precision,  which  he  vaguely 
conjectured  to  be  some  law  papers  from 
their  resemblance  to  the  phrasing  of  sher- 
iffs' and  electors'  notices  which  he  had  seen 
in  the  papers.  He  then  buried  the  corpse 
in  a  shallow  trench,  which  he  dug  by  the 
light  of  the  moon.  He  had  no  question  of 
responsibility ;  his  pioneer  training  had  not 
included  coroners'"  inquests  in  its  experience; 
in  giving  the  body  a  speedy  and  secure 
burial  from  predatory  animals  he  did  what 
one  frontiersman  would  do  for  another  — 
what  he  hoped  might  be  done  for  him.  If 
his  previous  unaccountable  feelings  returned 
occasionally,  it  was  not  from  that;  but 


122  IN   THE  TULES. 

rather  from  some  uneasiness  in  regard  to 
his  late  guest's  possible  feelings,  and  a  re- 
gret that  he  had  not  been  here  at  the  finding 
of  the  body.  That  it  would  in  some  way 
have  explained  his  own  accident  he  did  not 
doubt. 

The  boat  did  not  "slow  up"  the  next 
night,  but  passed  as  usual;  yet  three  or 
four  days  elapsed  before  he  could  look  for- 
ward to  its  coming  with  his  old  extravagant 
and  half -exalted  curiosity  —  which  was  his 
nearest  'approach  to  imagination.  He  was 
then  able  to  examine  it  more  closely,  for  the 
appearance  of  the  stranger  whom  he  now 
began  to  call  "his  friend"  in  his  verbal 
communings  with  himself  —  but  whom  he 
did  not  seem  destined  to  again  discover; 
until  one  day,  to  his  astonishment,  a  couple 
of  fine  horses  were  brought  to  his  clearing 
by  a  stock-drover.  They  had  been  "or- 
dered "  to  be  left  there.  In  vain  Morse  ex- 
postulated and  questioned. 

"Your  name  's  Martin  Morse,  ain't  it?" 
said  the  drover,  with  business  brusqueness ; 
"and  I  reckon  there  ain't  no  other  man  o' 
that  name  around  here?" 

"No,"  said  Morse. 

"Well,  then,  they  're  yours." 


IN   THE  TULES.  123 

"But  who  sent  them?"  insisted  Morse. 
"What  was  his  name,  and  where  does  he 
live?" 

"I  didn't  know  ez  I  was  called  upon  to 
give  the  pedigree  o'  buyers,"  said  the  drover 
drily;  "but  the  horses  is  'Morgan,'  you 
can  bet  your  life."  He  grinned  as  he  rode 
away. 

That  Captain  Jack  sent  them,  and  that  it 
was  a  natural  prelude  to  his  again  visiting 
him,  Morse  did  not  doubt,  and  for  a  few 
days  he  lived  in  that  dream.  But  Captain 
Jack  did  not  come.  The  animals  were  of 
great  service  to  him  in  "rounding  up"  the 
stock  he  now  easily  took  in  for  pasturage, 
and  saved  him  the  necessity  of  having  a 
partner  or  a  hired  man.  The  idea  that  this 
superior  gentleman  in  fine  clothes  might 
ever  appear  to  him  in  the  former  capacity 
had  even  flitted  through  his  brain,  but  he 
had  rejected  it  with  a  sigh.  But  the  thought 
that,  with  luck  and  industry,  he  himself 
might,  in  course  of  time,  approximate  to 
Captain  Jack's  evident  station,  did  occur 
to  him,  and  was  an  incentive  to  energy. 
Yet  it  was  quite  distinct  from  the  ordinary 
working  man's  ambition  of  wealth  and  state. 
It  was  only  that  it  might  make  him  more 


124  IN   THE  TULES. 

worthy  of  his  friend.  The  great  world  was 
still  as  it  had  appeared  to  him  in  the  pass- 
ing boat  —  a  thing  to  wonder  at  —  to  be 
above  —  and  to  criticise. 

For  all  that,  he  prospered  in  his  occupa- 
tion. But  one  day  he  woke  with  listless 
limbs  and  feet  that  scarcely  carried  him 
through  his  daily  labors.  At  night  his  list- 
lessness  changed  to  active  pain  and  a  fever- 
ishness  that  seemed  to  impel  him  towards 
the  fateful  river,  as  if  his  one  aim  in  life 
was  to  drink  up  its  waters  and  bathe  in  its 
yellow  stream.  But  whenever  he  seemed  to 
attempt  it,  strange  dreams  assailed  him  of 
dead  bodies  arising  with  swollen  and  dis- 
torted lips  to  touch  his  own  as  he  strove  to 
drink,  or  of  his  mysterious  guest  battling 
with  him  in  its  current,  and  driving  him 
ashore.  Again,  when  he  essayed  to  bathe 
his  parched  and  crackling  limbs  in  its  flood, 
he  would  be  confronted  with  the  dazzling 
lights  of  the  motionless  steamboat  and  the 
glare  of  stony  eyes  —  until  he  fled  in  aim- 
less terror.  How  long  this  lasted  he  knew 
not,  until  one  morning  he  awoke  in  his  new 
cabin  with  a  strange  man  sitting  by  his  bed 
and  a  negress  in  the  doorway. 

"You've   had   a   sharp   attack  of   '  tule 


IN   THE  TULES.  125 

fever,'  "  said  the  stranger,  dropping  Morse's 
listless  wrist  and  answering  his  questioning 
eyes,  "but  you're  all  right  now,  and  will 
pull  through." 

"Who  are  you?"  stammered  Morse  fee- 
bly. 

"Dr.  Duchesne,  of  Sacramento." 

"  How  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"I  was  ordered  to  come  to  you  and  bring 
a  nurse,  as  you  were  alone.  There  she  is." 
He  pointed  to  the  smiling  negress. 

"  Who  ordered  you?  " 

The  doctor  smiled  with  professional  toler- 
ance. "One  of  your  friends,  of  course." 

"But  what  was  his  name?  " 

"Really,  I  don't  remember.  But  don't 
distress  yourself.  He  has  settled  for  every- 
thing right  royally.  You  have  only  to  get 
strong  now.  My  duty  is  ended,  and  I  can 
safely  leave  you  with  the  nurse.  Only  when 
you  are  strong  again,  I  say  —  and  he  says 
—  keep  back  farther  from  the  river." 

And  that  was  all  he  knew.  For  even  the 
nurse  who  attended  him  through  the  first 
days  of  his  brief  convalescence  would  tell 
him  nothing  more.  He  quickly  got  rid  of 
her  and  resumed  his  work,  for  a  new  and 
strange  phase  of  his  simple,  childish  affec- 


126  IN   THE  TULES. 

tion  for  his  benefactor,  partly  superinduced 
by  his  illness,  was  affecting  him.  He  was 
beginning  to  feel  the  pain  of  an  unequal 
friendship ;  he  was  dimly  conscious  that  his 
mysterious  guest  was  only  coldly  returning 
his  hospitality  and  benefits,  while  holding 
aloof  from  any  association  with  him  —  and 
indicating  the  immeasurable  distance  that 
iseparated  their  future  intercourse.  He  had 
withheld  any  kind  message  or  sympathetic 
greeting;  he  had  kept  back  even  his  name. 
The  shy,  proud,  ignorant  heart  of  the  fron- 
tiersman swelled  beneath  the  fancied  slight, 
which  left  him  helpless  alike  of  reproach 
or  resentment.  He  could  not  return  the 
horses,  although  in  a  fit  of  childish  indigna- 
tion he  had  resolved  not  to  use  them;  he 
could  not  reimburse  him  for  the  doctor's 
bill,  although  he  had  sent  away  the  nurse. 

He  took  a  foolish  satisfaction  in  not  mov- 
ing back  from  the  river,  with  a  faint  hope 
that  his  ignoring  of  Captain  Jack's  advice 
might  mysteriously  be  conveyed  to  him. 
He  even  thought  of  selling  out  his  location 
and  abandoning  it,  that  he  might  escape  the 
cold  surveillance  of  his  heartless  friend. 
All  this  was  undoubtedly  childish  —  but 
there  is  an  irrepressible  simplicity  of  youth 


IN   THE  TULES.  127 

in  all  deep  feeling,  and  the  worldly  inexpe- 
rience of  the  frontiersman  left  him  as  inno- 
cent as  a  child.  In  this  phase  of  his  unre- 
quited affection  he  even  went  so  far  as  to 
seek  some  news  of  Captain  Jack  at  Sacra- 
mento, and,  following  out  his  foolish  quest, 
to  even  take  the  steamboat  from  thence  to 
Stockton. 

What  happened  to  him  then  was  perhaps 
the  common  experience  of  such  natures. 
Once  upon  the  boat  the  illusion  of  the  great 
world  it  contained  for  him  utterly  vanished. 
He  found  it  noisy,  formal,  insincere,  and  — • 
had  he  ever  understood  or  used  the  word  in 
his  limited  vocabulary  —  vulgar.  Rather, 
perhaps,  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  prevailing 
sentiment  and  action  of  those  who  frequented 
it  —  and  for  whom  it  was  built  —  were  of  a 
lower  grade  than  his  own.  And,  strangely 
enough,  this  gave  him  none  of  his  former 
sense  of  critical  superiority,  but  only  of  his 
own  utter  and  complete  isolation.  He  wan- 
dered in  his  rough  frontiersman's  clothes 
from  deck  to  cabin,  from  airy  galleries  to 
long  saloons,  alone,  unchallenged,  unrecog- 
nized, as  if  he  were  again  haunting  it  only 
in  spirit,  as  he  had  so  often  done  in  his 
dreams. 
Bret  Harte  6~ V.  6 


128  IN  THE  TULES. 

His  presence  on  the  fringe  of  some  volu- 
ble crowd  caused  no  interruption;  to  him 
their  speech  was  almost  foreign  in  its  allu- 
sions to  things  he  did  not  understand,  or, 
worse,  seemed  inconsistent  with  their  eager- 
ness and  excitement.  How  different  from 
all  this  were  his  old  recollections  of  slowly 
oncoming  teams,  uplifted  above  the  level 
horizon  of  the  plains  in  his  former  wander- 
ings; the  few  sauntering  figures  that  met 
him  as  man  to  man,  and  exchanged  the 
chronicle  of  the  road;  the  record  of  Indian 
tracks;  the  finding  of  a  spring;  the  discov- 
ery of  pasturage,  with  the  lazy,  restful  hos- 
pitality of  the  night !  And  how  fierce  here 
this  continual  struggle  for  dominance  and 
existence,  even  in  this  lull  of  passage.  For 
above  all  and  through  all  he  was  conscious 
of  the  feverish  haste  of  speed  and  exertion. 

The  boat  trembled,  vibrated,  and  shook 
with  every  stroke  of  the  ponderous  piston. 
The  laughter  of  the  crowd,  the  exchange  of 
gossip  and  news,  the  banquet  at  the  long 
table,  the  newspapers  and  books  in  the  read- 
ing-room, even  the  luxurious  couches  in  the 
state-rooms,  were  all  dominated,  thrilled, 
and  pulsating  with  the  perpetual  throb  of 
the  demon  of  hurry  and  unrest.  And  when 


IN   THE  TULES.  129 

at  last  a  horrible  fascination  dragged  him 
into  the  engine-room,  and  he  saw  the  cruel 
relentless  machinery  at  work,  he  seemed  to 
recognize  and  understand  some  intelligent 
but  pitiless  Moloch,  who  was  dragging  this 
feverish  world  at  its  heels. 

Later  he  was  seated  in  a  corner  of  the 
hurricane  deck,  whence  he  could  view  the 
monotonous  banks  of  the  river;  yet,  per- 
haps by  certain  signs  unobservable  to  others, 
he  knew  he  was  approaching  his  own  local- 
ity. He  knew  that  his  cabin  and  clearing 
would  be  undiscernible  behind  the  fringe  of 
willows  on  the  bank,  but  he  already  distin- 
guished the  points  where  a  few  cottonwoods 
struggled  into  a  promontory  of  lighter  foli- 
age beyond  them.  Here  voices  fell  upon 
his  ear,  and  he  was  suddenly  aware  that  two 
men  had  lazily  crossed  over  from  the  other 
side  of  the  boat,  and  were  standing  before 
him  looking  upon  the  bank. 

"It  was  about  here,  I  reckon,"  said  one, 
listlessly,  as  if  continuing  a  previous  lag- 
ging conversation,  "that  it  must  have  hap- 
pened. For  it  was  after  we  were  making 
for  the  bend  we  've  just  passed  that  the  dep- 
uty, goin'  to  the  state-room  below  us,  found 
the  door  locked  and  the  window  open.  But 


130  IN   THE   TULES. 

both  men  —  Jack  Despard  and  Setli  Hall, 
the  sheriff  —  weren't  to  be  found.  Not  a 
trace  of  'em.  The  boat  was  searched,  but 
all  for  nothing.  The  idea  is  that  the  sheriff, 
arter  getting  his  prisoner  comf'ble  in  the 
state  room,  took  off  Jack's  handcuffs  and 
locked  the  door ;  that  Jack,  who  was  mighty 
desp'rate,  bolted  through  the  window  into 
the  river,  and  the  sheriff,  who  was  no  slouch, 
arter  him.  Others  allow  —  for  the  chairs 
and  things  was  all  tossed  about  in  the  state- 
room —  that  the  two  men  clinched  thar,  and 
Jack  choked  Hall  and  chucked  him  out,  and 
then  slipped  cl'ar  into  the  water  himself, 
for  the  state-room  window  was  just  ahead  of 
the  paddle-box,  and  the  cap'n  allows  that 
no  man  or  men  could  fall  afore  the  paddles 
and  live.  Anyhow,  that  was  all  they  ever 
knew  of  it." 

"And  there  wasn't  no  trace  of  them 
found?  "  said  the  second  man,  after  a  long 
pause. 

"No.  Cap'n  says  them  paddles  would 
hev'  just  snatched  'em  and  slung  'em  round 
and  round  and  buried  'em  'way  down  in  the 
ooze  of  the  river  bed,  with  all  the  silt  of  the 
current  atop  of  'em,  and  they  might  n't  come 
up  for  ages;  or  else  the  wheels  might  have 


IN   THE  TULES.  131 

waltzed  'em  'way  up  to  Sacramento  until 
there  wasn't  enough  left  of  'em to  float,  and 
dropped  'em  when  the  boat  stopped." 

"It  was  a  mighty  fool  risk  for  a  man  like 
Despard  to  take,"  resumed  the  second 
speaker  as  he  turned  away  with  a  slight 
yawn. 

"Bet  your  life!  but  he  was  desp'rate,  and 
the  sheriff  had  got  him  sure !  And  they  do 
say  that  he  was  superstititious,  like  all  them 
gamblers,  and  allowed  that  a  man  who  was 
fixed  to  die  by  a  rope  or  a  pistol  wasn't  to 
be  washed  out  of  life  by  water." 

The  two  figures  drifted  lazily  away,  but 
Morse  sat  rigid  and  motionless.  Yet, 
strange  to  say,  only  one  idea  came  to  him 
clearly  out  of  this  awful  revelation  —  the 
thought  that  his  friend  was  still  true  to  him 
—  and  that  his  strange  absence  and  myste- 
rious silence  were  fully  accounted  for  and 
explained.  And  with  it  came  the  more 
thrilling  fancy  that  this  man  was  alive  now 
to  him  alone. 

He  was  the  sole  custodian  of  his  secret. 
The  morality  of  the  question,  while  it  pro- 
foundly disturbed  him,  was  rather  in  refer- 
ence to  its  effect  upon  the  chances  of  Cap- 
tain Jack  and  the  power  it  gave  his  enemies 


132  IN   THE  TITLES. 

than  his  own  conscience.  He  would  rather 
that  his  friend  should  have  proven  the  pro- 
scribed outlaw  who  retained  an  unselfish 
interest  in  him  than  the  superior  gentleman 
who  was  coldly  wiping  out  his  gratitude. 
He  thought  he  understood  now  the  reason 
of  his  visitor's  strange  and  varying  moods 
—  even  his  bitter  superstitious  warning  in 
regard  to  the  probable  curse  entailed  upon 
one  who  should  save  a  drowning  man.  Of 
this  he  recked  little ;  enough  that  he  fancied 
that  Captain  Jack's  concern  in  his  illness 
was  heightened  by  that  fear,  and  this  assur- 
ance of  his  protecting  friendship  thrilled 
him  with  pleasure. 

There  was  no  reason  now  why  he  should 
not  at  once  go  back  to  his  farm,  where,  at 
least,  Captain  Jack  would  always  find  him ; 
and  he  did  so,  returning  on  the  same  boat. 
He  was  now  fully  recovered  from  his  illness, 
and  calmer  in  mind ;  he  redoubled  his  labors 
to  put  himself  in  a  position  to  help  the  mys- 
terious fugitive  when  the  time  should  come. 
The  remote  farm  should  always  be  a  haven 
of  refuge  for  him,  and  in  this  hope  he  for- 
bore to  take  any  outside  help,  remaining 
solitary  and  alone,  that  Captain  Jack's  re- 
treat should  be  inviolate.  And  so  the  long, 


IN  THE  TULES.  133 

dry  season  passed,  the  hay  was  gathered, 
the  pasturing  herds  sent  home,  and  the  first 
rains,  dimpling  like  shot  the  broadening  sur- 
face of  the  river,  were  all  that  broke  his 
unending  solitude.  In  this  enforced  atti- 
tude of  waiting  and  expectancy  he  was  ex- 
alted and  strengthened  by  a  new  idea.  He 
was  not  a  religious  man,  but,  dimly  remem- 
bering the  exhortations  of  some  camp -meet- 
ing of  his  boyhood,  he  conceived  the  idea 
that  he  might  have  been  selected  to  work 
out  the  regeneration  of  Captain  Jack. 
What  might  not  come  of  this  meeting  and 
communing  together  in  this  lonely  spot? 
That  anything  was  due  to  the  memory  of 
the  murdered  sheriff,  whose  bones  were  rot- 
ting in  the  trench  that  he  daily  but  uncon- 
cernedly passed,  did  not  occur  to  him. 
Perhaps  his  mind  was  not  large  enough  for 
the  double  consideration.  Friendship  and 
love  —  and,  for  the  matter  of  that,  religion 
—  are  eminently  one-ideaed. 

But  one  night  he  awakened  with  a  start. 
His  hand,  which  was  hanging  out  of  his 
bunk,  was  dabbling  idly  in  water.  He  had 
barely  time  to  spring  to  his  middle  in  what 
seemed  to  be  a  slowly  filling  tank  before  the 
door  fell  out  as  from  that  inward  pressure, 


134  J^   THE  TULES. 

and  his  whole  shanty  collapsed  like  a  pack 
of  cards.  But  it  fell  outwards,  the  roof 
sliding  from  over  his  head  like  a  withdrawn 
canopy;  and  he  was  swept  from  his  feet 
against  it,  and  thence  out  into  what  might 
have  been  another  world!  For  the  rain  had 
ceased,  and  the  full  moon  revealed  only  one 
vast,  illimitable  expanse  of  water!  It  was 
not  an  overflow,  but  the  whole  rushing  river 
magnified  and  repeated  a  thousand  times, 
which,  even  as  he  gasped  for  breath  and 
clung  to  the  roof,  was  bearing  him  away  he 
knew  not  whither.  But  it  was  bearing  him 
away  upon  its  centre,  for  as  he  cast  one 
swift  glance  towards  his  meadows  he  saw 
they  were  covered  by  the  same  sweeping 
torrent,  dotted  with  his  sailing  hay-ricks 
and  reaching  to  the  wooded  foothills.  It 
was  the  great  flood  of  '54.  In  its  awe- 
inspiring  completeness  it  might  have  seemed 
to  him  the  primeval  Deluge. 

As  his  frail  raft  swept  under  a  cotton- 
wood  he  caught  at  one  of  the  overhanging 
limbs,  and,  working  his  way  desperately 
along  the  bough,  at  last  reached  a  secure 
position  in  the  fork  of  the  tree.  Here  he 
was  for  the  moment  safe.  But  the  devasta- 
tion viewed  from  this  height  was  only  the 


IN   THE  TULES.  135 

more  appalling.  Every  sign  of  his  clearing, 
all  evidence  of  his  past  year's  industry,  had 
disappeared.  He  was  now  conscious  for  the 
first  time  of  the  lowing  of  the  few  cattle  he 
had  kept,  as,  huddled  together  on  a  slight 
eminence,  they  one  by  one  slipped  over 
struggling  into  the  flood.  The  shining 
bodies  of  his  dead  horses  rolled  by  him  as 
he  gazed.  The  lower-lying  limbs  of  the 
sycamore  near  him  were  bending  with  the 
burden  of  the  lighter  articles  from  his  over- 
turned wagon  and  cabin  which  they  had 
caught  and  retained,  and  a  rake  was  securely 
lodged  in  a  bough.  The  habitual  solitude 
of  his  locality  was  now  strangely  invaded  by 
drifting  sheds,  agricultural  implements  and 
fence  rails  from  unknown  and  remote  neigh- 
bors, and  he  could  faintly  hear  the  far-off 
calling  of  some  unhappy  farmer  adrift  upon 
a  spar  of  his  wrecked  and  shattered  house. 
When  day  broke  he  was  cold  and  hungry. 

Hours  passed  in  hopeless  monotony,  with 
no  slackening  or  diminution  of  the  waters. 
Even  the  drifts  became  less,  and  a  vacant 
sea  at  last  spread  before  him  on  which  no- 
thing moved.  An  awful  silence  impressed 
him.  In  the  afternoon  rain  again  began  to 
fall  on  this  gray,  nebulous  expanse,  until 


136  IN   THE  TULES. 

the  whole  world  seemed  made  of  aqueous 
vapor.  He  had  but  one  idea  now  —  the 
coming  of  the  evening  boat,  and  he  would 
reserve  his  strength  to  swim  to  it.  He  did 
not  know  until  later  that  it  could  no  longer 
follow  the  old  channel  of  the  river,  and 
passed  far  beyond  his  sight  and  hearing. 
With  his  disappointment  and  exposure  that 
night  came  a  return  of  his  old  fever.  His 
limbs  were  alternately  racked  with  pain  or 
benumbed  and  lifeless.  He  could  scarcely 
retain  his  position  —  at  times  he  scarcely 
cared  to  —  and  speculated  upon  ending  his 
sufferings  by  a  quick  plunge  downwards. 
In  other  moments  of  lucid  misery  he  was 
conscious  of  having  wandered  in  his  mind ; 
of  having  seen  the  dead  face  of  the  murdered 
sheriff,  washed  out  of  his  shallow  grave  by 
the  flood,  staring  at  him  from  the  water;  to 
this  was  added  the  hallucination  of  noises. 
He  heard  voices,  his  own  name  called  by  a 
voice  he  knew  —  Captain  Jack's! 

Suddenly  he  started,  but  in  that  fatal 
movement  lost  his  balance  and  plunged 
downwards.  But  before  the  water  closed 
above  his  head  he  had  had  a  cruel  glimpse 
of  help  near  him;  of  a  flashing  light  —  of 
the  black  hull  of  a  tug  not  many  yards  away 


IN   THE  TULES.  137 

—  of  moving  figures  —  the   sensation  of  a 
sudden  plunge  following  his  own,  the  grip 
of  a  strong  hand  upon  his  collar,   and  — 
unconsciousness ! 

When  he  came  to  he  was  being  lifted  in 
a  boat  from  the  tug  and  rowed  through  the 
deserted  streets  of  a  large  city,  until  he  was 
taken  in  through  the  second-story  window 
of  a  half-submerged  hotel  and  cared  for. 
But  all  his  questions  yielded  only  the  infor- 
mation that  the  tug  —  a  privately  procured 
one,  not  belonging  to  the  Public  Relief 
Association  —  had  been  dispatched  for  him 
with  special  directions,  by  a  man  who  acted 
as  one  of  the  crew,  and  who  was  the  one 
who  had  plunged  in  for  him  at  the  last 
moment.  The  man  had  left  the  boat  at 
Stockton.  There  was  nothing  more?  Yes! 

—  he   had   left  a  letter.      Morse  seized  it 
feverishly.    It  contained  only  a  few  lines :  — 

"  We  are  quits  now.     You  are  all  right. 
I  have  saved  you  from  drowning,  and  shifted 
the  curse  to  my  own  shoulders.     Good-by. 
'  CAPTAIN  JACK.'  " 

The  astounded  man  attempted  to  rise  — 
to  utter  an  exclamation  — but  fell  back, 
unconscious. 

Weeks  passed  before  he  was  able  to  leave 


138  IN   THE  TULES. 

his  bed  —  and  then  only  as  an  impoverished 
and  physically  shattered  man.  He  had  no 
means  to  re-stock  the  farm  left  bare  by  the 
subsiding  water.  A  kindly  train  -  packer 
offered  him  a  situation  as  muleteer  in  a 
pack-train  going  to  the  mountains  —  for  he 
knew  tracks  and  passes  and  could  ride. 
The  mountains  gave  him  back  a  little  of  the 
vigor  he  had  lost  in  the  river  valley,  but 
none  of  its  dreams  and  ambitions.  One 
day,  while  tracking  a  lost  mule,  he  stopped 
to  slake  his  thirst  in  a  water-hole  —  all  that 
the  summer  had  left  of  a  lonely  mountain 
torrent.  Enlarging  the  hole  to  give  drink 
to  his  beast  also,  he  was  obliged  to  dislodge 
and  throw  out  with  the  red  soil  some  bits  of 
honeycomb  rock,  which  were  so  queer-look- 
ing and  so  heavy  as  to  attract  his  attention. 
Two  of  the  largest  he  took  back  to  camp 
with  him.  They  were  gold!  From  the 
locality  he  took  out  a  fortune.  Nobody 
wondered.  To  the  Calif ornian's  supersti- 
tion it  was  perfectly  natural.  It  was  "nig- 
ger luck"  —  the  luck  of  the  stupid,  the 
ignorant,  the  inexperienced,  the  non-seeker 
—  the  irony  of  the  gods ! 

But  the  simple,  bucolic  nature  that  had 
sustained  itself  against  temptation  with  pa- 


IN  THE  TULES.  139 

tient  industry  and  lonely  self -concentration 
succumbed  to  rapidly  acquired  wealth.  So 
it  chanced  that  one  day,  with  a  crowd  of 
excitement-loving  spendthrifts  and  compan- 
ions, he  found  himself  on  the  outskirts  of  a 
lawless  mountain  town.  An  eager,  frantic 
crowd  had  already  assembled  there  —  a  des- 
perado was  to  be  lynched !  Pushing  his  way 
through  the  crowd  for  a  nearer  view  of  the 
exciting  spectacle,  the  changed  and  reckless 
Morse  was  stopped  by  armed  men  only  at 
the  foot  of  a  cart,  which  upheld  a  quiet, 
determined  man,  who,  with  a  rope  around 
his  neck,  was  scornfully  surveying  the  mob, 
that  held  the  other  end  of  the  rope  drawn 
across  the  limb  of  a  tree  above  him.  The 
eyes  of  the  doomed  man  caught  those  of 
Morse  —  his  expression  changed  —  a  kindly 
smile  lit  his  face  —  he  bowed  his  proud  head 
for  the  first  time,  with  an  easy  gesture  of 
farewell. 

And  then,  with  a  cry,  Morse  threw  him- 
self upon  the  nearest  armed  guard,  and  a 
fierce  struggle  began.  He  had  overpowered 
one  adversary  and  seized  another  in  his 
hopeless  fight  towards  the  cart  when  the 
half-astonished  crowd  felt  that  something 
must  be  done.  It  was  done  with  a  sharp 


140  IZV   THE  TULES. 

report,  the  upward  curl  of  smoke  and  the 
falling  back  of  the  guard  as  Morse  stag- 
gered forward  free  —  with  a  bullet  in  his 
heart.  Yet  even  then  he  did  not  fall  until 
he  reached  the  cart,  when  he  lapsed  forward, 
dead,  with  his  arms  outstretched  and  his 
head  at  the  doomed  man's  feet. 

There  was  something  so  supreme  and  all- 
powerful  in  this  hopeless  act  of  devotion 
that  the  heart  of  the  multitude  thrilled  and 
then  recoiled  aghast  at  its  work,  and  a  sin- 
gle word  or  a  gesture  from  the  doomed  man 
himself  would  have  set  him  free.  But  they 
say  —  and  it  is  credibly  recorded  —  that  as 
Captain  Jack  Despard  looked  down  upon 
the  hopeless  sacrifice  at  his  feet  his  eyes 
blazed,  and  he  flung  upon  the  crowd  a  curse 
so  awful  and  sweeping  that,  hardened  as 
they  were,  their  blood  ran  cold,  and  then 
leaped  furiously  to  their  cheeks. 

"And  now,"  he  said,  coolly  tightening 
the  rope  around  his  neck  with  a  jerk  of  his 
head —  "Go  on,  and  be  d — d  to  you!  I  'm 
ready." 

They  did  not  hesitate  this  time.  And 
Martin  Morse  and  Captain  Jack  Despard 
were  buried  in  the  same  grave. 


A  CONVEKT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

THE  largest  tent  of  the  Tasajara  camp- 
meeting  was  crowded  to  its  utmost  extent. 
The  excitement  of  that  dense  mass  was  at 
its  highest  pitch.  The  Keverend  Stephen 
Masterton,  the  single  erect,  passionate  fig- 
ure of  that  confused  medley  of  kneeling 
worshipers,  had  reached  the  culminating 
pitch  of  his  irresistible  exhortatory  power. 
Sighs  and  groans  were  beginning  to  respond 
to  his  appeals,  when  the  reverend  brother 
was  seen  to  lurch  heavily  forward  and  fall 
to  the  ground. 

At  first  the  effect  was  that  of  a  part  of 
his  performance ;  the  groans  redoubled,  and 
twenty  or  thirty  brethren  threw  themselves 
prostrate  in  humble  imitation  of  the  preacher. 
But  Sister  Deborah  Stokes,  perhaps  through 
some  special  revelation  of  feminine  intuition, 
grasped  the  fallen  man,  tore  loose  his  black 
silk  necktie,  and  dragged  him  free  of  the 
struggling,  frantic  crowd  whose  paroxysms 
he  had  just  evoked.  Howbeit  he  was  pale 


142      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

and  unconscious,  and  unable  to  continue  the 
service.  Even  the  next  day,  when  he  had 
slightly  recovered,  it  was  found  that  any 
attempt  to  renew  his  fervid  exhortations 
produced  the  same  disastrous  result. 

A  council  was  hurriedly  held  by  the  eld- 
ers. In  spite  of  the  energetic  protests  of 
Sister  Stokes,  it  was  held  that  the  Lord 
"was  wrestlin'  with  his  sperrit,"  and  he 
was  subjected  to  the  same  extraordinary 
treatment  from  the  whole  congregation  that 
he  himself  had  applied  to  them.  Propped 
up  pale  and  trembling  in  the  "Mourners' 
Bench"  by  two  brethren,  he  was  "striven 
with,"  exhorted,  prayed  over,  and  admon- 
ished, until  insensibility  mercifully  suc- 
ceeded convulsions.  Spiritual  therapeutics 
having  failed,  he  was  turned  over  to  the 
weak  and  carnal  nursing  of  "women  folk." 
But  after  a  month  of  incapacity  he  was 
obliged  to  yield  to  "the  flesh,"  and,  in  the 
local  dialect,  "to  use  a  doctor." 

It  so  chanced  that  the  medical  practitioner 
of  the  district  was  a  man  of  large  experi- 
ence, of  military  training,  and  plain  speech. 
When,  therefore,  he  one  day  found  in  his 
surgery  a  man  of  rude  Western  type,  strong- 
limbed  and  sun-burned,  but  trembling,  hesi- 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      143 

tating  and  neurotic  in  movement,  after  lis- 
tening to  his  symptoms  gravely,  he  asked, 
abruptly:  "And  how  much  are  you  drink- 
ing now?" 

"I  am  a  life -long  abstainer,"  stammered 
his  patient  in  quivering  indignation.  But 
this  was  followed  by  another  question  so 
frankly  appalling  to  the  hearer  that  he  stag- 
gered to  his  feet. 

"  I  'm  Stephen  Masterton  —  known  of 
men  as  a  circuit  preacher,  of  the  Northern 
California  district,"  he  thundered  —  "and 
an  enemy  of  the  flesh  in  all  its  forms." 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  responded  Dr. 
Duchesne,  grimly,  "but  as  you  are  suffer- 
ing from  excessive  and  repeated  excitation 
of  the  nervous  system,  and  the  depression 
following  prolonged  artificial  exaltation  — 
it  makes  little  difference  whether  the  cause 
be  spiritual,  as  long  as  there  is  a  certain 
physical  effect  upon  your  body  —  which  I 
believe  you  have  brought  to  me  to  cure. 
Now  —  as  to  diet?  you  look  all  wrong  there." 

"  My  food  is  of  the  simplest  —  I  have  no 
hankering  for  flesh-pots,"  responded  the 
patient. 

"I  suppose  you  call  saleratus  bread  and 
salt  pork  and  flapjacks  simple?"  said  the 


144      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

doctor,  coolly;  "they  are  common  enough, 
and  if  you  were  working  with  your  muscles 
instead  of  your  nerves  in  that  frame  of  yours 
they  might  not  hurt  you ;  but  you  are  suffer- 
ing as  much  from  eating  more  than  you  can 
digest  as  the  veriest  gourmand.  You  must 
stop  all  that.  Go  down  to  a  quiet  watering- 
place  for  two  months."  .  .  . 

"/go  to  a  watering-place  ?"  interrupted 
Masterton;  "to  the  haunt  of  the  idle,  the 
frivolous  and  wanton  —  never!  " 

"  Well,  I  'm  not  particular  about  a  '  wa- 
tering-place,'"  said  the  doctor,  with  a 
shrug,  "although  a  little  idleness  and  frivol- 
ity with  different  food  would  n't  hurt  you  — 
but  you  must  go  somewhere  and  change  your 
habits  and  mode  of  life  completely.  I  will 
find  you  some  sleepy  old  Spanish  town  in 
the  southern  country  where  you  can  rest 
and  diet.  If  this  is  distasteful  to  you,"  he 
continued,  grimly,  "you  can  always  call 
it  'a  trial.'" 

Stephen  Masterton  may  have  thought  it 
so  when,  a  week  later,  he  found  himself 
issuing  from  a  rocky  gorge  into  a  rough, 
badly  paved,  hilly  street,  which  seemed  to 
be  only  a  continuation  of  the  mountain  road 
itself.  It  broadened  suddenly  into  a  square 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  J/ISSJO.V.      145 

or  plaza,  flanked  on  each  side  by  an  irregu- 
lar row  of  yellowing  adobe  houses,  with  the 
inevitable  verandahed  tienda  in  each  corner, 
and  the  solitary,  galleried  fonda,  with  a 
half  Moorish  archway  leading  into  an  inner 
patio  or  courtyard  in  the  centre. 

The  whole  street  stopped  as  usual  at  the 
very  door  of  the  Mission  church,  a  few 
hundred  yards  further  on,  and  under  the 
shadow  of  the  two  belfry  towers  at  each 
angle  of  the  facade,  as  if  this  were  the 
ultima  ihule  of  every  traveler.  But  all  that 
the  eye  rested  on  was  ruined,  worn,  and 
crumbling.  The  adobe  houses  were  cracked 
by  the  incessant  sunshine  of  the  half-year 
long  summer,  or  the  more  intermittent  earth- 
quake shock;  the  paved  courtyard  of  the 
fonda  was  so  uneven  and  sunken  in  the 
centre  that  the  lumbering  wagon  and  faded 
diligencia  stood  on  an  incline,  and  the 
mules  with  difficulty  kept  their  footing 
while  being  unladen;  the  whitened  plaster 
had  fallen  from  the  feet  of  the  two  pil- 
lars that  flanked  the  Mission  doorway,  like 
bandages  from  a  gouty  limb,  leaving  the 
reddish  core  of  adobe  visible ;  there  were  ap- 
parently as  many  broken  tiles  in  the  streets 
and  alleys  as  there  were  on  the  heavy  red 


146      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

roofs  that  everywhere  asserted  themselves 
—  and  even  seemed  to  slide  down  the  crum- 
bling walls  to  the  ground.  There  were 
hopeless  gaps  in  grille  and  grating  of  door- 
ways and  windows,  where  the  iron  bars  had 
dropped  helplessly  out,  or  were  bent  at  dif- 
ferent angles.  The  walls  of  the  peaceful 
Mission  garden  and  the  warlike  presidio 
were  alike  lost  in  the  escalading  vines  or 
leveled  by  the  pushing  boughs  of  gnarled 
pear  and  olive  trees  that  now  surmounted 
them.  The  dust  lay  thick  and  impalpable 
in  hollow  and  gutter,  and  rose  in  little  va- 
pory clouds  with  a  soft  detonation  at  every 
stroke  of  his  horse's  hoofs.  Over  all  this 
dust  and  ruin,  idleness  seemed  to  reign  su- 
preme. From  the  velvet-jacketed  figures 
lounging  motionless  in  the  shadows  of  the 
open  doorways  —  so  motionless  that  only 
the  lazy  drift  of  cigarette  smoke  betokened 
their  breathing  —  to  the  reclining  peons  in 
the  shade  of  a  catalpa,  or  the  squatting  In- 
dians in  the  arroyo  —  all  was  sloth  and  dirt. 
The  Rev.  Stephen  Masterton  felt  his 
throat  swell  with  his  old  exhortative  indig- 
nation. A  gaudy  yellow  fan  waved  lan- 
guidly in  front  of  a  black  rose-crested  head 
at  a  white-curtained  window.  He  knew  he 


A   CON  VEST  OF  THE  MISSION.      147 

was  stifling  with  righteous  wrath,  and  clapped 
his  spurs  to  his  horse. 

Nevertheless,  in  a  few  days,  by  the  aid  of 
a  letter  to  the  innkeeper,  he  was  installed 
in  a  dilapidated  adobe  house,  not  unlike 
those  he  had  seen,  but  situated  in  the  out- 
skirts, and  overlooking  the  garden  and  part 
of  the  refectory  of  the  old  Mission.  It  had 
even  a  small  garden  of  its  own  —  if  a  strip 
of  hot  wall,  overburdened  with  yellow  and 
white  roses,  a  dozen  straggling  callas,  a 
bank  of  heliotrope,  and  an  almond  tree 
could  be  called  a  garden.  It  had  an  open 
doorway,  but  so  heavily  recessed  in  the  thick 
walls  that  it  preserved  seclusion,  a  sitting- 
room,  and  an  alcoved  bed-room  with  deep 
embrasured  windows,  that,  however,  ex- 
cluded the  unwinking  sunlight  and  kept  an 
even  monotone  of  shade. 

Strange  to  say,  he  found  it  cool,  restful, 
and,  in  spite  of  the  dust,  absolutely  clean, 
and,  but  for  the  scent  of  heliotrope,  entirely 
inodorous.  The  dry  air  seemed  to  dissipate 
all  noxious  emanations  and  decay  —  the  very 
dust  itself  in  its  fine  impalpability  was  vola- 
tile with  a  spice-like  piquancy,  and  left  no 
stain. 

A  wrinkled  Indian  woman,   brown   and 


148       A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

veined  like  a  tobacco  leaf,  ministered  to  his 
simple  wants.  But  these  wants  had  also 
been  regulated  by  Dr.  Duchesne.  He  found 
himself,  with  some  grave  doubts  of  his  effem- 
inacy, breakfasting  on  a  single  cup  of 
chocolate  instead  of  his  usual  bowl  of  mo- 
lasses-sweetened coffee;  crumbling  a  crisp 
tortilla  instead  of  the  heavy  saleratus  bread, 
greasy  flapjack,  or  the  lard-fried  steak, 
and,  more  wonderful  still,  completing  his 
repast  with  purple  grapes  from  the  Mission 
wall.  He  could  not  deny  that  it  was  simple 

—  that  it  was  even  refreshing  and  consistent 
with  the  climate  and  his  surroundings.     On 
the  other  hand,  it  was  the  frugal  diet  of  the 
commonest   peasant  —  and   were   not   those 
peons  slothful  idolaters? 

At  the  end  of  the  week  —  his  correspon- 
dence being  also  restricted  by  his  doctor  to 
a  few  lines  to  himself  regarding  his  progress 

—  he  wrote  to  that  adviser :  — 

"The  trembling  and  unquiet  has  almost 
ceased;  I  have  less  nightly  turmoil  and  vi- 
sions ;  my  carnal  appetite  seems  to  be  amply 
mollified  and  soothed  by  these  viands,  what- 
ever may  be  their  ultimate  effect  upon  the 
weakness  of  our  common  sinful  nature. 
But  I  should  not  be  truthful  to  you  if  I  did 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      149 

not  warn  you  that  I  am  viewing  with  the 
deepest  spiritual  concern  a  decided  tendency 
towards  sloth,  and  a  folding  of  the  hands 
over  matters  that  often,  I  fear,  are  spiritual 
as  well  as  temporal.  I  would  ask  you  to 
consider,  in  a  spirit  of  love,  if  it  be  not 
wise  to  rouse  my  apathetic  flesh,  so  as  to 
strive,  even  with  the  feeblest  exhortations 
—  against  this  sloth  in  others  —  if  only 
to  keep  one's  self  from  falling  into  the  pit 
of  easy  indulgence." 

What  answer  he  received  is  not  known, 
but  it  is  to  be  presumed  that  he  kept  loyal 
faith  with  his  physician,  and  gave  himself 
up  to  simple  walks  and  rides  and  occasional 
meditation.  His  solitude  was  not  broken 
upon;  curiosity  was  too  active  a  vice,  and 
induced  too  much  exertion  for  his  indolent 
neighbors,  and  the  Americano's  basking  se- 
clusion, though  unlike  the  habits  of  his 
countrymen,  did  not  affect  them.  The  shop- 
keeper and  innkeeper  saluted  him  always 
with  a  profound  courtesy  which  awakened 
his  slight  resentment,  partly  because  he  was 
conscious  that  it  was  grateful  to  him,  and 
partly  that  he  felt  he  ought  to  have  pro- 
voked in  them  a  less  satisfied  condition. 

Once,   when  he   had   unwittingly  passed 


150      A  CON  VEST  OF  THE  MISSION. 

the  confines  of  his  own  garden,  through  a 
gap  in  the  Mission  orchard,  a  lissome, 
black-coated  shadow  slipped  past  him  with 
an  obeisance  so  profound  and  gentle  that  he 
was  startled  at  first  into  an  awkward  imita- 
tion of  it  himself,  and  then  into  an  angry 
self-examination.  He  knew  that  he  loathed 
that  long-skirted,  woman-like  garment,  that 
dangling,  ostentatious  symbol,  that  air  of 
secrecy  and  mystery,  and  he  inflated  his 
chest  above  his  loosely  tied  cravat  and  un- 
buttoned waistcoat  with  a  contrasted  sense 
of  freedom.  But  he  was  conscious  the  next 
day  of  weakly  avoiding  a  recurrence  of  this 
meeting,  and  in  his  self-examination  put  it 
down  to  his  self-disciplined  observance  of 
his  doctor's  orders.  But  when  he  was 
strong  again,  and  fitted  for  his  Master's 
work,  how  strenuously  he  should  improve 
the  occasion  this  gave  him  of  attacking  the 
Scarlet  Woman  among  her  slaves  and  wor- 
shipers ! 

His  afternoon  meditations  and  the  perusal 
of  his  only  book  —  the  Bible  —  were  regu- 
larly broken  in  upon  at  about  sunset  by  two 
or  three  strokes  from  the  cracked  bell  that 
hung  in  the  open  belfry  which  reared  itself 
beyond  the  gnarled  pear  trees.  He  could 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.       151 

not  say  that  it  was  aggressive  or  persistent, 
like  his  own  church  bells,  nor  that  it  even 
expressed  to  him  any  religious  sentiment. 
Moreover,  it  was  not  a  "Sabbath"  bell,  but 
a  daily  one,  and  even  then  seemed  to  be 
only  a  signal  to  ears  easily  responsive,  rather 
than  a  stern  reminder.  And  the  hour  was 
always  a  singularly  witching  one. 

It  was  when  the  sun  had  slipped  from  the 
glaring  red  roofs,  and  the  yellowing  adobe 
of  the  Mission  walls  and  the  tall  ranks  of 
wild  oats  on  the  hillside  were  all  of  the  one 
color  of  old  gold.  It  was  when  the  quiver- 
ing heat  of  the  arroyo  and  dusty  expanse 
of  plaza  was  blending  with  the  soft  breath  of 
the  sea  fog  that  crept  through  the  clefts 
of  the  coast  range,  until  a  refreshing  balm 
seemed  to  fall  like  a  benediction  on  all 
nature.  It  was  when  the  trade- wind-swept 
and  irritated  surfaces  of  the  rocky  gorge 
beyond  were  soothed  with  clinging  vapors ; 
when  the  pines  above  no  longer  rocked  mo- 
notonously, and  the  great  undulating  sea  of 
the  wild  oat  plains  had  gone  down  and  was 
at  rest.  It  was  at  this  hour,  one  afternoon, 
that,  with  the  released  scents  of  the  garden, 
there  came  to  him  a  strange  and  subtle  per- 
fume that  was  new  to  his  senses.  He  laid 


152      A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

aside  his  book,  went  into  the  garden,  and, 
half-unconscious  of  his  trespass,  passed 
through  the  Mission  orchard  and  thence 
into  the  little  churchyard  beside  the  church. 

Looking  at  the  strange  inscriptions  in  an 
unfamiliar  tongue,  he  was  singularly  touched 
with  the  few  cheap  memorials  lying  upon 
the  graves  —  like  childish  toys  —  and  for 
the  moment  overlooked  the  papistic  emblems 
that  accompanied  them.  It  struck  him 
vaguely  that  Death,  the  common  leveler, 
had  made  even  the  symbols  of  a  faith  eter- 
nal inferior  to  those  simple  records  of  un- 
dying memory  and  affection,  and  he  was  for 
a  moment  startled  into  doubt. 

He  walked  to  the  door  of  the  church :  to 
his  surprise  it  was  open.  Standing  upon 
the  threshold  he  glanced  inside,  and  stood 
for  a  moment  utterly  bewildered.  In  a 
man  of  refined  taste  and  education  that 
bizarre  and  highly  colored  interior  would 
have  only  provoked  a  smile  or  shrug;  to 
Stephen  Masterton's  highly  emotional  na- 
ture, but  artistic  inexperience,  strangely 
enough  it  was  profoundly  impressive.  The 
heavily  timbered,  roughly  hewn  roof,  barred 
with  alternate  bands  of  blue  and  Indian 
red,  the  crimson  hangings,  the  gold  and 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.       153 

black  draperies,  affected  this  religious  back- 
woodsman exactly  as  they  were  designed  to 
affect  the  heathen  and  acolytes  for  whose 
conversion  the  temple  had  been  reared.  He 
could  scarcely  take  his  eyes  from  the  tinsel- 
crowned  Mother  of  Heaven,  resplendent  in 
white  and  gold  and  glittering  with  jewels, 
the  radiant  shield  before  the  Host,  illumi- 
nated by  tall  spectral  candles  in  the  myste- 
rious obscurity  of  the  altar,  dazzled  him 
like  the  rayed  disk  of  the  setting  sun. 

A  gentle  murmur,  as  of  the  distant  sea, 
came  from  the  altar.  In  his  naive  bewil- 
derment he  had  not  seen  the  few  kneeling 
figures  in  the  shadow  of  column  and  aisle; 
it  was  not  until  a  man,  whom  he  recognized 
as  a  muleteer  he  had  seen  that  afternoon 
gambling  and  drinking  in  the  f  onda,  slipped 
by  him  like  a  shadow  and  sank  upon  his 
knees  in  the  centre  of  the  aisle  that  he  real- 
ized the  overpowering  truth. 

He,  Stephen  Masterton,  was  looking  upon 
some  rite  of  Popish  idolatry!  He  was  turn- 
ing quickly  away  when  the  keeper  of  the 
tienda  —  a  man  of  sloth  and  sin  —  gently 
approached  him  from  the  shadow  of  a  col- 
umn with  a  mute  gesture,  which  he  took  to 
be  one  of  invitation.  A  fierce  protest  of 


154       A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

scorn  and  indignation  swelled  to  his  throat, 
but  died  upon  his  lips.  Yet  he  had  strength 
enough  to  erect  his  gaunt  emaciated  figure, 
throwing  out  his  long  arms  and  extended 
palms  in  the  attitude  of  defiant  exorcism, 
and  then  rush  swiftly  from  the  church.  As 
he  did  so  he  thought  he  saw  a  faint  smile 
cross  the  shopkeeper's  face,  and  a  whispered 
exchange  of  words  with  a  neighboring  wor- 
shiper of  more  exalted  appearance  came  to 
his  ears.  But  it  was  not  intelligible  to  his 
comprehension. 

The  next  day  he  wrote  to  his  doctor  in 
that  quaint  grandiloquence  of  written  speech 
with  which  the  half -educated  man  balances 
the  slips  of  his  colloquial  phrasing :  — 

"Do  not  let  the  purgation  of  my  flesh  be 
unduly  protracted.  What  with  the  sloth 
and  idolatries  of  Baal  and  Ashteroth,  which 
I  see  daily  around  me,  I  feel  that  without 
a  protest  not  only  the  flesh  but  the  spirit  is 
mortified.  But  my  bodily  strength  is  mer- 
cifully returning,  and  I  found  myself  yester- 
day able  to  take  a  long  ride  at  that  hour 
which  they  here  keep  sacred  for  an  idola- 
trous rite,  under  the  beautiful  name  of 
'The  Angelns.'  Thus  do  they  bear  false 
witness  to  Him!  Can  you  tell  me  the 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.       155 

meaning  of  the  Spanish  words,  '  Don  Key- 
hotter?  '  I  am  ignorant  of  these  sensuous 
Southern  languages,  and  am  aware  that  this 
is  not  the  correct  spelling,  but  I  have  striven 
to  give  the  phonetic  equivalent.  It  was 
used,  I  am  inclined  to  think,  in  reference 
to  myself,  by  an  idolater. 

"P.  S.  — You  need  not  trouble  yourself. 
I  have  just  ascertained  that  the  words  in 
question  were  simply  the  title  of  an  idle 
novel,  and,  of  course,  could  not  possibly 
refer  to  rae." 

Howbeit  it  was  as  "Don  Quixote  "  —  that 
is,  the  common  Spaniard's  conception  of  the 
Knight  of  La  Mancha,  merely  the  simple 
fanatic  and  madman  —  that  Mr.  Stephen 
Masterton  ever  after  rode  all  unconsciously 
through  the  streets  of  the  Mission,  amid  the 
half-pitying,  half-smiling  glances  of  the 
people. 

In  spite  of  his  meditations,  his  single 
volume,  and  his  habit  of  retiring  early,  he 
found  his  evenings  were  growing  lonely  and 
tedious.  He  missed  the  prayer  -  meeting, 
and,  above  all,  the  hymns.  He  had  a  fine 
baritone  voice,  sympathetic,  as  may  be  im- 
agined, but  not  cultivated.  One  night,  in 
the  seclusion  of  his  garden,  and  secure  in 


156      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

his  distance  from  other  dwellings,  he  raised 
his  voice  in  a  familiar  camp-meeting  hymn 
with  a  strong  Covenanter's  ring  in  the 
chorus.  Growing  bolder  as  he  went  on,  he 
at  last  rilled  the  quiet  night  with  the  strenu- 
ous sweep  of  his  chant.  Surprised  at  his 
own  fervor,  he  paused  for  a  moment,  listen- 
ing, half-frightened,  half-ashamed  of  his 
outbreak.  But  there  was  only  the  trilling 
of  the  night  wind  in  the  leaves,  or  the  far- 
off  yelp  of  a  coyote. 

For  a  moment  he  thought  he  heard  the 
metallic  twang  of  a  stringed  instrument  in 
the  Mission  garden  beyond  his  own,  and 
remembered  his  contiguity  to  the  church 
with  a  stir  of  defiance.  But  he  was  relieved, 
nevertheless.  His  pent  -  up  emotion  had 
found  vent,  and  without  the  nervous  excite- 
ment that  had  followed  his  old  exaltation. 
That  night  he  slept  better.  He  had  found 
the  Lord  again  —  with  Psalmody ! 

The  next  evening  he  chanced  upon  a 
softer  hymn  of  the  same  simplicity,  but  with 
a  vein  of  human  tenderness  in  its  aspira- 
tions, which  his  more  hopeful  mood  gently 
rendered.  At  the  conclusion  of  the  first 
verse  he  was,  however,  distinctly  conscious 
of  being  followed  by  the  same  twanging 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      157 

sound  he  had  heard  on  the  previous  night, 
and  which  even  his  untutored  ear  could  rec- 
ognize as  an  attempt  to  accompany  him. 
But  before  he  had  finished  the  second  verse 
the  unknown  player,  after  an  ingenious  but 
ineffectual  essay  to  grasp  the  right  chord, 
abandoned  it  with  an  impatient  and  almost 
pettish  flourish,  and  a  loud  bang  upon  the 
sounding-board  of  the  unseen  instrument. 
Masterton  finished  it  alone. 

With  his  curiosity  excited,  however,  he 
tried  to  discover  the  locality  of  the  hidden 
player.  The  sound  evidently  came  from 
the  Mission  garden;  but  in  his  ignorance  of 
the  language  he  could  not  even  interrogate 
his  Indian  housekeeper.  On  the  third 
night,  however,  his  hymn  was  uninterrupted 
by  any  sound  from  the  former  musician. 
A  sense  of  disappointment,  he  knew  not 
why,  came  over  him.  The  kindly  overture 
of  the  unseen  player  had  been  a  relief  to  his 
loneliness.  Yet  he  had  barely  concluded 
the  hymn  when  the  familiar  sound  again 
struck  his  ears.  But  this  time  the  musician 
played  boldly,  confidently,  and  with  a  sin- 
gular skill  on  the  instrument. 

The  brilliant  prelude  over,  to  his  entire 
surprise  and  some  confusion,  a  soprano 


158       A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

voice,  high,  childish,  but  infinitely  quaint 
and  fascinating,  was  mischievously  uplifted. 
But  alas!  even  to  his  ears,  ignorant  of  the 
language,  it  was  very  clearly  a  song  of  lev- 
ity and  wantonness,  of  freedom  and  license, 
of  coquetry  and  incitement !  Yet  such  was 
its  fascination  that  he  fancied  it  was  re- 
claimed by  the  delightful  childlike  and  inno- 
cent expression  of  the  singer. 

Enough  that  this  tall,  gaunt,  broad-shoul- 
dered man  arose,  and,  overcome  by  a  curi- 
osity almost  as  childlike,  slipped  into  the 
garden  and  glided  with  an  Indian  softness 
of  tread  towards  the  voice.  The  moon  shone 
full  upon  the  ruined  Mission  wall  tipped 
with  clusters  of  dark  foliage.  Half  hiding, 
half  mingling  with  one  of  them  —  an  indis- 
tinct bulk  of  light-colored  huddled  fleeces 
like  an  extravagant  bird's  nest  —  hung  the 
unknown  musician.  So  intent  was  the  per- 
former's preoccupation  that  Masterton  actu- 
ally reached  the  base  of  the  wall  immediately 
below  the  figure  without  attracting  its  atten- 
tion. But  his  foot  slipped  on  the  crumbling 
debris  with  a  snapping  of  dry  twigs.  There 
was  a  quick  little  cry  from  above.  He  had 
barely  time  to  recover  his  position  before 
the  singer,  impulsively  leaning  over  the 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.       159 

parapet,  had  lost  hers,  and  fell  outwards. 
But  Masterton  was  tall,  alert,  and  self-pos- 
sessed, and  threw  out  his  long  arms.  The 
next  moment  they  were  full  of  soft  flounces, 
a  struggling  figure  was  against  his  breast, 
and  a  woman's  frightened  little  hands  around 
his  neck.  But  he  had  broken  her  fall,  and 
almost  instantly,  yet  with  infinite  gentle- 
ness, he  released  her  unharmed,  with  hardly 
her  crisp  flounces  crumpled,  in  an  upright 
position  against  the  wall.  Even  her  guitar, 
still  hanging  from  her  shoulder  by  a  yellow 
ribbon,  had  bounded  elastic  and  resounding 
against  the  wall,  but  lay  intact  at  her  satin- 
slippered  feet.  She  caught  it  up  with  an- 
other quick  little  cry,  but  this  time  more  of 
sauciness  than  fear,  and  drew  her  little 
hand  across  its  strings,  half  defiantly. 

"I  hope  you  are  not  hurt?"  said  the  cir- 
cuit preacher,  gravely. 

She  broke  into  a  laugh  so  silvery  that  he 
thought  it  no  extravagance  to  liken  it  to  the 
moonbeams  that  played  over  her  made  audi- 
ble. She  was  lithe,  yet  plump;  barred  with 
black  and  yellow  and  small  waisted  like  a 
pretty  wasp.  .  Her  complexion  in  that  light 
was  a  sheen  of  pearl  satin  that  made  her 
eyes  blacker  and  her  little  mouth  redder 
Bret  Harte  6— V.  6 


160      A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

than  any  other  color  could.  She  was  small, 
but,  remembering  the  fourteen-year-old  wife 
of  the  shopkeeper,  he  felt  that,  for  all  her 
childish  voice  and  features,  she  was  a  grown 
woman,  and  a  sudden  shyness  took  hold  of 
him. 

But  she  looked  pertly  in  his  face,  stood 
her  guitar  upright  before  her,  and  put  her 
hands  behind  her  back  as  she  leaned  saucily 
against  the  wall  and  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

"It  was  the  fault  of  you,"  she  said,  in  a 
broken  English  that  seemed  as  much  infan- 
tine as  foreign.  "  What  for  you  not  remain 
to  yourself  in  your  own  casa  ?  So  it  come. 
You  creep  so  —  in  the  dark  —  and  shake  my 
wall,  and  I  fall.  And  she,"  pointing  to  the 
guitar,  "is  a'most  broke!  And  for  all  thees 
I  have  only  make  to  you  a  serenade.  In- 
grate! " 

"I  beg  your  pardon,"  said  Masterton 
quickly,  "but  I  was  curious.  I  thought  I 
might  help  you,  and  "  — 

"Make  yourself  another  cat  on  the  wall, 
eh?  No;  one  is  enough,  thank  you!  " 

A  frown  lowered  on  Masterton 's  brow. 
"You  don't  understand  me,"  he  said, 
bluntly.  "I  did  not  know  who  was  here." 

"  Ah,  bueno !    Then  it  is  Pepita  Ramirez, 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      161 

you  see,"  she  said,  tapping  her  bodice  with 
one  little  finger,  "all  the  same;  the  niece 
from  Manuel  Garcia,  who  keeps  the  Mission 
garden  and  lif  there.  And  you? " 

"My  name  is  Masterton." 

"How  mooch?" 

"Masterton,"  he  repeated. 

She  tried  to  pronounce  it  once  or  twice 
desperately,  and  then  shook  her  little  head 
so  violently  that  a  yellow  rose  fastened  over 
her  ear  fell  to  the  ground.  But  she  did  not 
heed  it,  nor  the  fact  that  Masterton  had 
picked  it  up. 

"Ah,  I  cannot!  "  she  said,  poutingly. 
"It  is  as  deefeecult  to  make  go  as  my  guitar 
with  your  serenade." 

"  Can  you  not  say '  Stephen  Masterton  '  ?  " 
he  asked,  more  gently,  with  a  returning  and 
forgiving  sense  of  her  childishness. 

"Es-stefen?  Ah,  Esteban!  Yes;  Don 
Esteban  !  Bueno  !  Then,  Don  Esteban, 
what  for  you  sink  so  melank-olly  one  night, 
and  one  night  so  fierce?  The  melank-olly, 
he  ees  not  so  bad ;  but  the  fierce  —  ah !  he 
is  weeked !  Ess  it  how  the  Americano  make 
always  his  serenade?" 

Masterton 's  brow  again  darkened.  And 
his  hymn  of  exultation  had  been  mistaken 


162      A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

by  these  people  —  by  this  —  this  wanton 
child! 

"It  was  no  serenade,"  he  replied,  curtly; 
"it  was  in  praise  of  the  Lord!  " 

"Of  how  mooch?  " 

"  Of  the  Lord  of  Hosts  —  of  the  Almighty 
in  Heaven."  He  lifted  his  long  arms  rev- 
erently on  high. 

"Oh!"  she  said,  with  a  frightened  look, 
slightly  edging  away  from  the  wall.  At  a 
secure  distance  she  stopped.  "Then  you 
are  a  soldier,  Don  Esteban?" 

"No!" 

"Then  what  for  you  sink  '  I  am  a  soldier 
of  the  Lord, '  and  you  will  make  die  '  in  His 
army?  '  Oh,  yes;  you  have  said."  She 
gathered  up  her  guitar  tightly  under  her 
arm,  shook  her  small  finger  at  him  gravely, 
and  said,  "You  are  a  hoombog,  Don  Este- 
ban; good  a'  night,"  and  began  to  glide 
away. 

"One  moment,  Miss  —  Miss  Ramirez," 
called  Masterton.  "I  —  that  is  you  —  you 
have  —  forgotten  your  rose,"  he  added,  fee- 
bly, holding  up  the  flower.  She  halted. 

"Ah,  yes;  he  have  drop,  you  have  pick 
him  up,  he  is  yours,  /have  drop,  you  have 
pick  me  up,  but  I  am  not  yours.  Good  a' 
night,  Comandante  Don  Esteban !" 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      163 

With  a  light  laugh  she  ran  along  beside 
the  wall  for  a  little  distance,  suddenly  leaped 
up  and  disappeared  in  one  of  the  largest 
gaps  in  its  ruined  and  helpless  structure. 
Stephen  Masterton  gazed  after  her  stupidly, 
still  holding  the  rose  in  his  hand.  Then  he 
threw  it  away  and  re-entered  his  home. 

Lighting  his  candle,  he  undressed  him- 
self, prayed  fervently  —  so  fervently  that 
all  remembrance  of  the  idle,  foolish  incident 
was  wiped  from  his  mind,  and  went  to  bed. 
He  slept  well  and  dreamlessly.  The  next 
morning,  when  his  thoughts  recurred  to  the 
previous  night,  this  seemed  to  him  a  token 
that  he  had  not  deviated  from  his  spiritual 
integrity;  it  did  not  occur  to  him  that  the 
thought  itself  was  a  tacit  suspicion. 

So  his  feet  quite  easily  sought  the  garden 
again  in  the  early  sunshine,  even  to  the  wall 
where  she  had  stood.  But  he  had  not  taken 
into  account  the  vivifying  freshness  of  the 
morning,  the  renewed  promise  of  life  and 
resurrection  in  the  pulsing  air  and  potent 
sunlight,  and  as  he  stood  there  he  seemed  to 
see  the  figure  of  the  young  girl  again  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  in  all  the  charm  of  her 
irrepressible  and  innocent  youth.  More 
than  that,  he  found  the  whole  scene  re-enact- 


164      A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

ing  itself  before  him;  the  nebulous  drapery 
half  hidden  in  the  foliage,  the  cry  and  the 
fall;  the  momentary  soft  contact  of  the 
girl's  figure  against  his  own,  the  clinging 
arms  around  his  neck,  the  brush  and  fra- 
grance of  her  flounces  —  all  this  came  back 
to  him  with  a  strength  he  had  not  felt  when 
it  occurred. 

He  was  turning  hurriedly  away  when  his 
eyes  fell  upon  the  yellow  rose  still  lying  in 
the  debris  where  he  had  thrown  it  —  but 
still  pure,  fresh,  and  unfaded.  He  picked 
it  up  again,  with  a  singular  fancy  that  it 
was  the  girl  herself,  and  carried  it  into  the 
house. 

As  he  placed  it  half  shyly  in  a  glass  on 
his  table  a  wonderful  thought  occurred  to 
him.  Was  not  the  episode  of  last  night  a 
special  providence?  Was  not  that  young 
girl,  wayward  and  childlike,  a  mere  neo- 
phyte in  her  idolatrous  religion,  as  yet  un- 
steeped  in  sloth  and  ignorance,  presented 
to  him  as  a  brand  to  be  snatched  from  the 
burning?  Was  not  this  the  opportunity  of 
conversion  he  had  longed  for;  —  this  the 
chance  of  exercising  his  gifts  of  exhortation, 
that  he  had  been  hiding  in  the  napkin  of 
solitude  and  seclusion?  Nay,  was  not  all 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      165 

this  predestined?  His  illness,  his  conse- 
quent exile  to  this  land  of  false  gods  —  this 
contiguity  to  the  Mission  —  was  not  all  this 
part  of  a  supremely  ordered  plan  for  the 
girl's  salvation  —  and  was  he  not  elected 
and  ordained  for  that  service?  Nay,  more, 
was  not  the  girl  herself  a  mere  unconscious 
instrument  in  the  hands  of  a  higher  power; 
was  not  her  voluntary  attempt  to  accompany 
him  in  his  devotional  exercise  a  vague  stir- 
ring of  that  predestined  force  within  her? 
Was  not  even  that  wantonness  and  frivolity 
contrasted  with  her  childishness  —  which  he 
had  at  first  misunderstood  —  the  stirrings  of 
the  flesh  and  the  spirit,  and  was  he  to  aban- 
don her  in  that  struggle  of  good  and  evil? 

He  lifted  his  bowed  head,  that  had  been 
resting  on  his  arm  before  the  little  flower 
on  the  table  —  as  if  it  were  a  shrine  —  with 
a  flash  of  resolve  in  his  blue  eyes.  The 
wrinkled  Concepcion  coming  to  her  duties 
in  the  morning  scarcely  recognized  her 
gloomily  abstracted  master  in  this  transfig- 
ured man.  He  looked  ten  years  younger. 

She  met  his  greeting,  and  the  few  direct 
inquiries  that  his  new  resolve  enabled  him 
to  make  more  freely,  with  some  informa. 
tion  —  which  a  later  talk  with  the  shop. 


166      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

keeper,  who  had  a  fuller  English  vocabu- 
lary, confirmed  in  detail. 

"Yes!  truly  this  was  a  niece  of  the  Mis- 
sion gardener,  who  lived  with  her  uncle  in 
the  ruined  wing  of  the  presidio.  She  had 
taken  her  first  communion  four  years  ago. 
Ah,  yes,  she  was  a  great  musician,  and 
could  play  on  the  organ.  And  the  guitar, 
ah,  yes  —  of  a  certainty.  She  was  gay,  and 
flirted  with  the  caballeros,  young  and  old, 
but  she  cared  not  for  any." 

Whatever  satisfaction  this  latter  state- 
ment gave  Masterton,  he  believed  it  was 
because  the  absence  of  any  disturbing  worldly 
affection  would  make  her  an  easier  convert. 

But  how  continue  this  chance  acquaint- 
ance and  effect  her  conversion?  For  the 
first  time  Masterton  realized  the  value  of 
expediency ;  while  his  whole  nature  impelled 
him  to  frankly  and  publicly  seek  her  society 
and  openly  exhort  her,  he  knew  that  this 
was  impossible;  still  more,  he  remembered 
her  unmistakable  fright  at  his  first  expres- 
sion of  faith;  he  must  "be  wise  as  the  ser- 
pent and  harmless  as  the  dove."  He  must 
work  upon  her  soul  alone,  and  secretly. 
He,  who  would  have  shrunk  from  any  clan- 
destine association  with  a  girl  from  mere 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      167 

human  affection,  saw  no  wrong  in  a  covert 
intimacy  for  the  purpose  of  religious  salva- 
tion. Ignorant  as  he  was  of  the  ways  of 
the  world,  and  inexperienced  in  the  usages 
of  society,  he  began  to  plan  methods  of 
secretly  meeting  her  with  all  the  intrigue  of 
a  gallant.  The  perspicacity  as  well  as  the 
intuition  of  a  true  lover  had  descended  upon 
him  in  this  effort  of  mere  spiritual  conquest. 

Armed  with  his  information  and  a  few 
Spanish  words,  he  took  the  yellow  Concep- 
cion  aside  and  gravely  suborned  her  to  carry 
a  note  to  be  delivered  secretly  to  Miss  Ra- 
mirez. To  his  great  relief  and  some  sur- 
prise the  old  woman  grinned  with  intelli- 
gence, and  her  withered  hand  closed  with  a 
certain  familiar  dexterity  over  the  epistle 
and  the  accompanying  gratuity.  To  a  man 
less  naively  one-ideaed  it  might  have  awak- 
ened some  suspicion;  but  to  the  more  san- 
guine hopefulness  of  Masterton  it  only  sug- 
gested the  fancy  that  Concepcion  herself 
might  prove  to  be  open  to  conversion,  and 
that  he  should  in  due  season  attempt  her 
salvation  also.  But  that  would  be  later. 
For  Concepcion  was  always  with  him  and 
accessible;  the  girl  was  not. 

The  note,  which  had  cost  him  some  labor 


168      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

of  composition,  simple  and  almost  business- 
like as  was  the  result,  ran  as  follows :  — 

"I  wish  to  see  you  upon  some  matter  of 
grave  concern  to  yourself.  Will  you  oblige 
me  by  coming  again  to  the  wall  of  the  Mis- 
sion to-night  at  early  candle-light?  It 
would  avert  worldly  suspicion  if  you  brought 
also  your  guitar." 

The  afternoon  dragged  slowly  on;  Con- 
cepcion  returned;  she  had,  with  great  diffi- 
culty, managed  to  see  the  Seiiorita,  but  not 
alone;  she  had,  however,  slipped  the  note 
into  her  hand,  not  daring  to  wait  for  an 
answer. 

In  his  first  hopefulness  Masterton  did  not 
doubt  what  the  answer  would  be,  but  as 
evening  approached  he  grew  concerned  as  to 
the  girl's  opportunities  of  coming,  and  re- 
gretted that  he  had  not  given  her  a  choice 
of  time. 

Before  his  evening  meal  was  finished  he 
began  to  fear  for  her  willingness,  and  doubt 
the  potency  of  his  note.  He  was  accus- 
tomed to  exhort  orally  —  perhaps  he  ought 
to  have  waited  for  the  chance  of  speaking 
to  her  directly  without  writing. 

When  the  moon  rose  he  was  already  in 
the  garden.  Lingering  at  first  in  the  shadow 


A  CON  VEST  OF  THE  MISSION,      169 

of  an  olive  tree,  he  waited  until  the  moon- 
beams fell  on  the  wall  and  its  crests  of  foli- 
age. But  nothing  moved  among  that  ebony 
tracery ;  his  ear  was  strained  for  the  famil- 
iar tinkle  of  the  guitar  —  all  was  silent. 
As  the  moon  rose  higher  he  at  last  boldly 
walked  to  the  wall,  and  listened  for  any 
movement  on  the  other  side  of  it.  But 
nothing  stirred.  She  was  evidently  not 
coming  —  his  note  had  failed. 

He  was  turning  away  sadly,  but  as  he 
faced  his  home  again  he  heard  a  light  laugh 
beside  him.  He  stopped.  A  black  shadow 
stepped  out  from  beneath  his  own  almond 
tree.  He  started,  when,  with  a  gesture 
that  seemed  familiar  to  him,  the  upper  part 
of  the  shadow  seemed  to  fall  away  with  a 
long  black  mantilla  and  the  face  of  the 
young  girl  was  revealed. 

He  could  see  now  that  she  was  clad  in 
black  lace  from  head  to  foot.  She  looked 
taller,  older,  and  he  fancied  even  prettier 
than  before.  A  sudden  doubt  of  his  ability 
to  impress  her,  a  swift  realization  of  all  the 
difficulties  of  the  attempt,  ^,nd,  for  the 
first  time,  perhaps,  a  dim  perception  of  the 
incongruity  of  the  situation  came  over 
him. 


170      A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

"I  was  looking  for  you  on  the  wall,"  lie 
stammered. 

"Madre  de  Dios  !"  she  retorted,  with  a 
laugh  and  her  old  audacity,  "you  would 
that  I  shall  always  hang  there,  and  drop 
upon  you  like  a  pear  when  you  shake  the 
tree?  No!" 

"You  haven't  brought  your  guitar,"  he 
continued,  still  more  awkwardly,  as  he  no- 
ticed that  she  held  only  a  long  black  fan  in 
her  hand. 

"For  why?  You  would  that  I  play  it, 
and  when  my  uncle  say  '  Where  go  Pepita? 
She  is  loss, '  some  one  shall  say,  '  Oh !  I 
have  hear  her  tink-a-tink  in  the  garden  of 
the  Americano,  who  lif  alone.'  And  then 
—  it  ess  finish!  " 

Masterton  began  to  feel  exceedingly  un- 
comfortable. There  was  something  in  this 
situation  that  he  had  not  dreamed  of.  But 
with  the  persistency  of  an  awkward  man  he 
went  on. 

"But  you  played  on  the  wall  the  other 
night,  and  tried  to  accompany  me." 

"  But  that  was  lass  night  and  on  the  wall. 
I  had  not  speak  to  you,  you  had  not  speak 
to  me.  You  had  not  sent  me  the  leetle  note 
by  your  peon."  She  stopped,  and  suddenly 


j  A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      171 

opening  her  fan  before  her  face,  so  that 
only  her  mischievous  eyes  were  visible, 
added:  "You  had  not  asked  me  then  to 
come  to  hear  you  make  lof  to  me,  Don  Este- 
ban.  That  is  the  difference." 

The  circuit  preacher  felt  the  blood  rush 
to  his  face.  Anger,  shame,  mortification, 
remorse,  and  fear  alternately  strove  with 
him,  but  above  all  and  through  all  he  was 
conscious  of  a«  sharp,  exquisite  pleasure  — 
that  frightened  him  still  more.  Yet  he 
managed  to  exclaim :  — 

"No!  no!  You  cannot  think  me  capable 
of  such  a  cowardly  trick?" 

The  girl  started,  more  at  the  unmistak- 
able sincerity  of  his  utterance  than  at  the 
words,  whose  full  meaning  she  may  have 
only  imperfectly  caught. 

"A  treek?  A  treek?"  she  slowly  and 
wonderingly  repeated.  Then  suddenly,  as 
if  comprehending  him,  she  turned  her  round 
black  eyes  full  upon  him  and  dropped  her 
fan  from  her  face. 

"And  what  for  you  ask  me  to  come  here 
then?  " 

"I  wanted  to  talk  with  you,"  he  began, 
"on  far  more  serious  matters.  I  wished 
to"  —  but  he  stopped.  He  could  not  ad- 


172      A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION; 

dress  this  quaint  child- woman,  staring  at 
him  in  black-eyed  wonder,  in  either  the 
measured  or  the  impetuous  terms  with  which 
he  would  have  exhorted  a  maturer  responsi- 
ble being.  He  made  a  step  towards  her; 
she  drew  back,  striking  at  his  extended 
hand  half  impatiently,  half  mischievously 
with  her  fan. 

He  flushed  —  and  then  burst  out  bluntly, 
"I  want  to  talk  with  you  about  your  soul." 

"My  what?" 

"Your  immortal  soul,  unhappy  girl." 

"What  have  you  to  make  with  that? 
Are  you  a  devil?  "  Her  eyes  grew  rounder, 
though  she  faced  him  boldly. 

"I  am  a  Minister  of  the  Gospel,"  he  said, 
in  hurried  entreaty.  "You  must  hear  me 
for  a  moment.  I  would  save  your  soul." 

"My  immortal  soul  lif  with  the  Padre  at 
the  Mission  —  you  moost  seek  her  there! 
My  mortal  body,"  she  added,  with  a  mis- 
chievous smile,  "say  to  you,  '  good  a'  night, 
Don  Esteban.'  "  She  dropped  him  a  little 
courtesy  and  —  ran  away. 

"One  moment,  Miss  Ramirez,"  said  Mas- 
terton,  eagerly;  but  she  had  already  slipped 
beyond  his  reach.  He  saw  her  little  black 
figure  passing  swiftly  beside  the  moonlit 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      173 

wall,  saw  it  suddenly  slide  into  a  shadowy 
fissure,  and  vanish. 

In  his  blank  disappointment  he  could  not 
bear  to  reenter  the  house  he  had  left  so 
sanguinely  a  few  moments  before,  but 
walked  moodily  in  the  garden.  His  dis- 
comfiture was  the  more  complete  since  he 
felt  that  his  defeat  was  owing  to  some  mis- 
take in  his  methods,  and  not  the  incorrigi- 
bility  of  his  subject. 

Was  it  not  a  spiritual  weakness  in  him  to 
have  resented  so  sharply  the  girl's  imputa- 
tion that  he  wished  to  make  love  to  her? 
He  should  have  borne  it  as  Christians  had 
even  before  now  borne  slander  and  false 
testimony  for  their  faith!  He  might  even 
have  accepted  it,  and  let  the  triumph  of  her 
conversion  in  the  end  prove  his  innocence. 
Or  was  his  purpose  incompatible  with  that 
sisterly  affection  he  had  so  often  preached 
to  the  women  of  his  flock?  He  might  have 
taken  her  hand,  and  called  her  "Sister 
Pepita,"  even  as  he  had  called  Deborah 
"Sister."  He  recalled  the  fact  that  he  had 
for  an  instant  held  her  struggling  in  his 
arms:  he  remembered  the  thrill  that  the 
recollection  had  caused  him,  and  somehow 
it  now  sent  a  burning  blush  across  his  face. 
He  hurried  back  into  the  house. 


174      A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

The  next  day  a  thousand  wild  ideas  took 
the  place  of  his  former  settled  resolution. 
He  would  seek  the  Padre,  this  custodian  of 
the  young  girl's  soul;  he  would  convince 
him  of  his  error,  or  beseech  him  to  give  him 
an  equal  access  to  her  spirit!  He  would 
seek  the  uncle  of  the  girl,  and  work  upon 
his  feelings. 

Then  for  three  or  four  days  he  resolved 
to  put  the  young  girl  from  his  mind,  trust- 
ing after  the  fashion  of  his  kind  for  some 
special  revelation  from  a  supreme  source  as 
an  indication  for  his  conduct.  This  revela- 
tion presently  occurred,  as  it  is  apt  to  occur 
when  wanted. 

One  evening  his  heart  leaped  at  the  famil- 
iar sound  of  Pepita's  guitar  in  the  distance. 
Whatever  his  ultimate  intention  now,  he 
hurriedly  ran  into  the  garden.  The  sound 
came  from  the  former  direction,  but  as  he 
unhesitatingly  approached  the  Mission  wall, 
he  could  see  that  she  was  not  upon  it,  and 
as  the  notes  of  her  guitar  were  struck  again, 
he  knew  that  they  came  from  the  other  side. 
But  the  chords  were  a  prelude  to  one  of  his 
own  hymns,  and  he  stood  entranced  as  her 
sweet,  child-like  voice  rose  with  the  very 
words  that  he  had  sung.  The  few  defects 


A   CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.       175 

were  those  of  purely  oral  imitation,  the 
accents,  even  the  slight  reiteration  of  the 
"s,"  were  Pepita's  own:  — 

Cheeldren  oof  the  Heavenly  King, 
As  ye  journey  essweetly  ssing  ; 
Essing  your  great  Redeemer's  praise, 
Glorioos  in  Hees  works  and  ways. 

He  was  astounded.  Her  recollection  of 
the  air  and  words  was  the  more  wonderful, 
for  he  remembered  now  that  he  had  only 
sung  that  particular  hymn  once.  But  to 
his  still  greater  delight  and  surprise,  her 
voice  rose  again  in  the  second  verse,  with 
a  touch  of  plaintiveness  that  swelled  his 
throat:  — 

We  are  traveling  home  to  God, 
In  the  way  our  farzers  trod, 
They  are  happy  now,  and  we 
Soon  their  happiness  shall  see. 

The  simple,  almost  childish  words  —  so 
childish  that  they  might  have  been  the  fit- 
ting creation  of  her  own  childish  lips  —  here 
died  away  with  a  sweep  and  crash  of  the 
whole  strings.  Breathless  silence  followed, 
in  which  Stephen  Masterton  could  feel  the 
beatings  of  his  own  heart. 

"Miss  Ramirez,"  he  called,  in  a  voice 
that  scarcely  seemed  his  own.  There  was 


176      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

no  reply.  "Pepita!"  he  repeated;  it  was 
strangely  like  the  accent  of  a  lover,  but  he 
no  longer  cared.  Still  the  singer's  voice 
was  silent. 

Then  he  ran  swiftly  beside  the  wall,  as 
he  had  seen  her  run,  until  he  came  to  the 
fissure.  It  was  overgrown  with  vines  and 
brambles  almost  as  impenetrable  as  an  abat- 
tis,  but  if  she  had  pierced  it  in  her  delicate 
crape  dress,  so  could  he!  He  brushed 
roughly  through,  and  found  himself  in  a 
glimmering  aisle  of  pear  trees  close  by  the 
white  wall  of  the  Mission  church. 

For  a  moment  in  that  intricate  tracing  of 
ebony  and  ivory  made  by  the  rising  moon, 
he  was  dazzled,  but  evidently  his  irruption 
into  the  orchard  had  not  been  as  lithe  and 
silent  as  her  own,  for  a  figure  in  a  parti- 
colored dress  suddenly  started  into  activity, 
and  running  from  the  wall,  began  to  course 
through  the  trees  until  it  became  apparently 
a  part  of  that  involved  pattern.  Nothing 
daunted,  however,  Stephen  Masterton  pur- 
sued, his  speed  increased  as  he  recognized 
the  flounces  of  Pepita's  barred  dress,  but 
the  young  girl  had  the  advantage  of  know- 
ing the  locality,  and  could  evade  her  pursuer 
by  unsuspected  turns  and  doubles. 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      177 

For  some  moments  this  fanciful  sylvan 
chase  was  kept  up  in  perfect  silence;  it 
might  have  been  a  woodland  nymph  pursued 
by  a  wandering  shepherd.  Masterton  pres- 
ently saw  that  she  was  making  towards  a 
tiled  roof  that  was  now  visible  as  projecting 
over  the  presidio  wall,  and  was  evidently 
her  goal  of  refuge.  He  redoubled  his  speed; 
with  skillful  audacity  and  sheer  strength  of 
his  broad  shoulders  he  broke  through  a 
dense  ceanothus  hedge  which  Pepita  was 
swiftly  skirting,  and  suddenly  appeared  be- 
tween her  and  her  house. 

With  her  first  cry,  the  young  girl  turned 
and  tried  to  bury  herself  in  the  hedge;  but 
in  another  stride  the  circuit  preacher  was 
at  her  side,  and  caught  her  panting  figure 
in  his  arms. 

While  he  had  been  running  he  had  swiftly 
formulated  what  he  should  do  and  what  he 
should  say  to  her.  To  his  simple  appeal 
for  her  companionship  and  willing  ear  he 
would  add  a  brotherly  tenderness,  that 
should  invite  her  trustfulness  in  him;  he 
would  confess  his  wrong  and  ask  her  for- 
giveness of  his  abrupt  solicitations;  he 
would  propose  to  teach  her  more  hymns, 
they  would  practise  psalmody  together; 


178      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

even  this  priest,  the  custodian  of  her  soul, 
could  not  object  to  that;  but  chiefly  he 
would  thank  her :  he  would  tell  her  how  she 
had  pleased  him,  and  this  would  lead  to 
more  serious  and  thoughtful  converse.  All 
this  was  in  his  mind  while  he  ran,  was  upon 
his  lips  as  he  caught  her  and  for  an  instant 
she  lapsed,  exhausted,  in  his  arms.  But, 
alas!  even  in  that  moment  he  suddenly 
drew  her  towards  him,  and  kissed  her  as 
only  a  lover  could ! 

The  wire  grass  was  already  yellowing  on 
the  Tasajara  plains  with  the  dusty  decay  of 
the  long,  dry  summer,  when  Dr.  Duchesne 
returned  to  Tasajara.  He  came  to  see  the 
wife  of  Deacon  Sanderson,  who,  having  for 
the  twelfth  time  added  to  the  population  of 
the  settlement,  was  not  "doing  as  well"  as 
everybody  —  except,  possibly,  Dr.  Duchesne 
—  expected.  After  he  had  made  this  hol- 
low-eyed, over-burdened,  under-nourished 
woman  as  comfortable  as  he  could  in  her 
rude,  neglected  surroundings,  to  change  the 
dreary  chronicle  of  suffering,  he  turned  to 
the  husband,  and  said,  "And  what  has  be- 
come of  Mr.  Masterton,  who  used  to  be  in 
your  —  vocation  ?  "  A  long  groan  came  from 
the  deacon. 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      179 

"Hallo!  I  hope  lie  has  not  had  a  re- 
lapse," said  the  Doctor,  earnestly.  "I 
thought  I  'd  knocked  all  that  nonsense  out 
of  him  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  I  mean,"  he 
added,  hurriedly,  "he  wrote  to  me  only  a 
few  weeks  ago  that  he  was  picking  up  his 
strength  again  and  doing  well!  " 

"In  his  weak,  gross,  sinful  flesh  —  yes, 
no  doubt,"  returned  the  Deacon,  scornfully, 
"and,  perhaps,  even  in  a  worldly  sense,  for 
those  who  value  the  vanities  of  life ;  but  he 
is  lost  to  us,  for  all  time,  and  lost  to  eternal 
life  forever.  Not,"  he  continued  in  sancti- 
monious vindictiveness,  "but  that  I  often 
had  my  doubts  of  Brother  Masterton's 
steadfastness.  He  was  too  much  given  to 
imagery  and  song." 

"But  what  has  he  done?"  persisted  Doc- 
tor Duchesne. 

"Done!  He  has  embraced  the  Scarlet 
Woman!" 

"Dear  me!"  said  the  Doctor,  "so  soon? 
Is  it  anybody  you  knew  here?  —  not  any- 
body's wife?  Eh?" 

"He  has  entered  the  Church  of  Kome," 
said  the  Deacon,  indignantly,  "he  has  for- 
saken the  God  of  his  fathers  for  the  tents  of 
the  idolaters;  he  is  the  consort  of  Papists 
and  the  slave  of  the  Pope !  " 


180      A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION. 

"But  are  you  sure?"  said  Doctor  Du- 
chesne,  with  perhaps  less  concern  than  be- 
fore. 

"Sure,"  returned  the  Deacon  angrily, 
"didn't  Brother  Bulkley,  on  account  of 
warning  reports  made  by  a  God-fearing  and 
soul-seeking  teamster,  make  a  special  pil- 
grimage to  this  land  of  Sodom  to  inquire 
and  spy  out  its  wickedness?  Didn't  he 
find  Stephen  Masterton  steeped  in  the  in- 
iquity of  practising  on  an  organ  —  he  that 
scorned  even  a  violin  or  harmonium  in  the 
tents  of  the  Lord  —  in  an  idolatrous  chapel, 
with  a  foreign  female  Papist  for  a  teacher? 
Did  n't  he  find  him  a  guest  at  the  board  of 
a  Jesuit  priest,  visiting  the  schools  of  the 
Mission  where  this  young  Jezebel  of  a  singer 
teaches  the  children  to  chant  in  unknown 
tongues?  Didn't  he  find  him  living  with  a 
wrinkled  Indian  witch  who  called  him  '  Pa- 
drone,' —  and  speaking  her  gibberish? 
Didn't  they  find  him,  who  left  here  a  man 
mortified  in  flesh  and  spirit  and  pale  with 
striving  with  sinners,  fat  and  rosy  from 
native  wines  and  flesh  pots,  and  even  vain 
and  gaudy  in  colored  apparel?  And  last  of 
all,  did  n't  Brother  Bulkley  hear  that  a 
'rumor  was  spread  far  and  wide  that  this 


A  CONVERT  OF  THE  MISSION.      181 

miserable  backslider  was  to  take  to  himself 
a  wife  —  in  one  of  these  strange  women  — 
that  very  Jezebel  who  seduced  him?  What 
do  you  call  that?" 

"It  looks  a  good  deal  like  human  nature," 
said  the  Doctor,  musingly,  "but  /  call  it 
a  cure!" 


THE  INDISCEETION  OF  ELSBETH. 

THE  American  paused.  He  had  evidently 
lost  his  way.  For  the  last  half-hour  he 
had  been  wandering  in  a  mediaeval  town,  in 
a  profound  mediaeval  dream.  Only  a  few 
days  had  elapsed  since  he  had  left  the  steam- 
ship that  carried  him  hither ;  and  the  accents 
of  his  own  tongue,  the  idioms  of  his  own 
people  and  the  sympathetic  community  of 
New  World  tastes  and  expressions  still  filled 
his  mind  until  he  woke  up,  or  rather,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  was  falling  asleep  in  the 
past  of  this  Old  World  town  which  had 
once  held  his  ancestors.  Although  a  repub- 
lican, he  had  liked  to  think  of  them  in 
quaint  distinctive  garb,  representing  State 
and  importance  —  perhaps  even  aristocratic 
preeminence  —  content  to  let  the  responsi- 
bility of  such  "bad  eminence"  rest  with 
them  entirely,  but  a  habit  of  conscientious- 
ness and  love  for  historic  truth  eventually 
led  him  also  to  regard  an  honest  bauer 
standing  beside  his  cattle  in  the  quaint 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     183 

market-place,  or  a  kindly-faced  black-eyed 
dienstmadchen  in  a  doorway,  with  a  timid, 
respectful  interest,  as  a  possible  type  of  his 
progenitors.  For,  unlike  some  of  his  trav- 
eling countrymen  in  Europe,  he  was  not  a 
snob,  and  it  struck  him  —  as  an  American 
—  that  it  was,  perhaps,  better  to  think  of 
his  race  as  having  improved  than  as  having 
degenerated.  In  these  ingenuous  medita- 
tions he  had  passed  the  long  rows  of  quaint, 
high  houses,  whose  sagging  roofs  and  un- 
patched  dilapidations  were  yet  far  removed 
from  squalor,  until  he  had  reached  the  road 
bordered  by  poplars,  all  so  unlike  his  own 
country's  waysides  —  and  knew  that  he  had 
wandered  far  from  his  hotel. 

He  did  not  care,  however,  to  retrace  his 
steps  and  return  by  the  way  he  had  come. 
There  was,  he  reasoned,  some  other  street 
or  turning  that  would  eventually  bring  him 
to  the  market-place  and  his  hotel,  and  yet 
extend  his  experience  of  the  town.  He 
turned  at  right  angles  into  a  narrow  grass 
lane,  which  was,  however,  as  neatly  kept 
and  apparently  as  public  as  the  highway. 
A  few  moments'  walking  convinced  him 
that  it  was  not  a  thoroughfare  and  that  it 
led  to  the  open  gates  of  a  park.  This  had 


184     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH. 

something  of  a  public  look,  which  suggested 
that  his  intrusion  might  be,  at  least,  a  par- 
donable trespass,  and  he  relied,  like  most 
strangers,  on  the  exonerating  quality  of  a 
stranger's  ignorance.  The  park  lay  in  the 
direction  he  wished  to  go,  and  yet  it  struck 
him  as  singular  that  a  park  of  such  extent 
should  be  allowed  to  still  occupy  such  valu- 
able urban  space.  Indeed,  its  length  seemed 
to  be  illimitable  as  he  wandered  on,  until 
he  became  conscious  that  he  must  have  again 
lost  his  way,  and  he  diverged  toward  the 
only  boundary,  a  high,  thick-set  hedge  to 
the  right,  whose  line  he  had  been  following. 
As  he  neared  it  he  heard  the  sound  of 
voices  on  the  other  side,  speaking  in  Ger- 
man, with  which  he  was  unfamiliar.  Hav- 
ing, as  yet,  met  no  one,  and  being  now  im- 
pressed with  the  fact  that  for  a  public  place 
the  park  was  singularly  deserted,  he  was 
conscious  that  his  position  was  getting  seri- 
ous, and  he  determined  to  take  this  only 
chance  of  inquiring  his  way.  The  hedge 
was  thinner  in  some  places  than  in  others, 
and  at  times  he  could  see  not  only  the  light 
through  it  but  even  the  moving  figures  of 
the  speakers,  and  the  occasional  white  flash 
of  a  summer  gown.  At  last  he  determined 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     185 

to  penetrate  it,  and  with  little  difficulty 
emerged  on  the  other  side.  But  here  he 
paused  motionless.  He  found  himself  be- 
hind a  somewhat  formal  and  symmetrical 
group  of  figures  with  their  backs  toward 
him,  but  all  stiffened  into  attitudes  as  mo- 
tionless as  his  own,  and  all  gazing  with  a 
monotonous  intensity  in  the  direction  of  a 
handsome  building,  which  had  been  invisi- 
ble above  the  hedge,  but  which  now  seemed 
to  arise  suddenly  before  him.  Some  of  the 
figures  were  in  uniform.  Immediately  be- 
fore him,  but  so  slightly  separated  from  the 
others  that  he  was  enabled  to  see  the  house 
between  her  and  her  companions,  he  was 
confronted  by  the  pretty  back,  shoulders 
and  blonde  braids  of  a  young  girl  of  twenty. 
Convinced  that  he  had  unwittingly  intruded 
upon  some  august  ceremonial,  he  instantly 
slipped  back  into  the  hedge,  but  so  silently 
that  his  momentary  presence  was  evidently 
undetected.  When  he  regained  the  park 
side  he  glanced  back  through  the  interstices ; 
there  was  no  movement  of  the  figures  nor 
break  in  the  silence  to  indicate  that  his  in- 
trusion had  been  observed.  With  a  long 
breath  of  relief  he  hurried  from  the  park. 
It  was  late  when  he  finally  got  back  to 


186     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH. 

his  hotel.  But  his  little  modern  adventure 
had,  I  fear,  quite  outrun  his  previous  medi- 
aeval reflections,  and  almost  his  first  inquiry 
of  the  silver-chained  porter  in  the  courtyard 
was  in  regard  to  the  park.  There  was  no 
public  park  in  Alstadt !  The  Herr  possibly 
alluded  to  the  Hof  Gardens  —  the  Schloss, 
which  was  in  the  direction  he  indicated. 
The  Schloss  was  the  residency  of  the  hered- 
itary Grand  Duke.  Ja  wohlf  He  was 
stopping  there  with  several  Hoheiten. 
There  was  naturally  a  party  there  —  a  fam- 
ily reunion.  But  it  was  a  private  inclosure. 
At  times,  when  the  Grand  Duke  was  not 
"in  residence,"  it  was  open  to  the  public. 
In  point  of  fact,  at  such  times  tickets  of 
admission  were  to  be  had  at  the  hotel  for 
fifty  pfennige  each.  There  was  not,  of 
truth,  much  to  see  except  a  model  farm  and 
dairy  —  the  pretty  toy  of  a  previous  Grand 
Duchess. 

But  he  seemed  destined  to  come  into 
closer  collision  with  the  modern  life  of  Al- 
stadt. On  entering  the  hotel,  wearied  by 
his  long  walk,  he  passed  the  landlord  and  a 
man  in  half -military  uniform  on  the  landing 
near  his  room.  As  he  entered  his  apart- 
ment he  had  a  vague  impression,  without 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     187 

exactly  knowing  why,  that  the  landlord  and 
the  military  stranger  had  just  left  it.  This 
feeling  was  deepened  by  the  evident  disar- 
rangement of  certain  articles  in  his  unlocked 
portmanteau  and  the  disorganization  of  his 
writing-case.  A  wave  of  indignation  passed 
over  him.  It  was  followed  by  a  knock  at 
the  door,  and  the  landlord  blandly  appeared 
with  the  stranger. 

"A  thousand  pardons,"  said  the  former, 
smilingly,  "but  Herr  Sanderman,  the  Ober- 
Inspector  of  Police,  wishes  to  speak  with 
you.  I  hope  we  are  not  intruding  ?" 

"Not  now,"  said  the  American,  dryly. 

The  two  exchanged  a  vacant  and  depreca- 
ting smile. 

"I  have  to  ask  only  a  few  formal  ques- 
tions," said  the  Ober-Inspector  in  excellent 
but  somewhat  precise  English,  "to  supple- 
ment the  report  which,  as  a  stranger,  you 
may  not  know  is  required  by  the  police  from 
the  landlord  in  regard  to  the  names  and 
quality  of  his  guests  who  are  foreign  to  the 
town.  You  have  a  passport ?" 

"I  have,"  said  the  American  still  more 
drily.  "  But  I  do  not  keep  it  in  an  unlocked 
portmanteau  or  an  open  writing-case." 

"An  admirable  precaution,"  said  Sander- 


188     THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH. 
i 

man,  with  unmoved  politeness.  "May  I 
see  it?  Thanks,"  he  added,  glancing  over 
the  document  which  the  American  produced 
from  his  pocket.  "I  see  that  you  are  a 
born  American  citizen  —  and  an  earlier 
knowledge  of  that  fact  would  have  prevented 
this  little  contretemps.  You  are  aware,  Mr. 
Hoffman,  that  your  name  is  German?  " 

"  It  was  borne  by  my  ancestors,  who  came 
from  this  country  two  centuries  ago,"  said 
Hoffman,  curtly. 

"We  are  indeed  honored  by  your  return 
to  it,"  returned  Sanderman  suavely,  "but 
it  was  the  circumstance  of  your  name  being 
a  local  one,  and  the  possibility  of  your  still 
being  a  German  citizen  liable  to  unper- 
formed military  duty,  which  has  caused  the 
trouble."  His  manner  was  clearly  civil  and 
courteous,  but  Hoffman  felt  that  all  the 
time  his  own  face  and  features  were  under- 
going a  profound  scrutiny  from  the  speaker. 

"And  you  are  making  sure  that  you  will 
know  me  again?"  said  Hoffman,  with  a 
smile. 

"I  trust,  indeed,  both,"  returned  Sander- 
man, with  a  bow,  "although  you  will  permit 
me  to  say  that  your  description  here,"  point- 
ing to  the  passport,  "scarcely  does  you  jus- 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     189 

tice.  Ach  Gott !  it  is  the  same  in  all  coun- 
tries; the  official  eye  is  not  that  of  the 
young  Damen." 

Hoffman,  though  not  conceited,  had  not 
lived  twenty  years  without  knowing  that  he 
was  very  good-looking,  yet  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  remark  that  caused  him  to  color 
with  a  new  uneasiness.  The  Ober-Inspector 
rose  with  another  bow,  and  moved  toward 
the  door.  "I  hope  you  will  let  me  make 
amends  for  this  intrusion  by  doing  anything 
I  can  to  render  your  visit  here  a  pleasant 
one.  Perhaps,"  he  added,  "it  is  not  for 
long." 

But  Hoffman  evaded  the  evident  question 
as  he  resented  what  he  imagined  was  a  pos- 
sible sneer. 

"I  have  not  yet  determined  my  move- 
ments," he  said. 

The  Ober-Inspector  brought  his  heels  to- 
gether in  a  somewhat  stiffer  military  salute 
and  departed. 

Nothing,  however,  could  have  exceeded 
the  later  almost  servile  urbanity  of  the  land- 
lord, who  seemed  to  have  been  proud  of  the 
official  visit  to  his  guest.  He  was  profuse 
in  his  attentions,  and  even  introduced  him 
to  a  singularly  artistic-looking  man  of  mid- 


190     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELS  BETH. 

die  age,  wearing  an  order  in  his  buttonhole, 
whom  he  met  casually  in  the  hall. 

"Our  Court  photographer,"  explained 
the  landlord  with  some  fervor,  "at  whose 
studio,  only  a  few  houses  distant,  most  of 
the  Hoheiten  and  Prinzessinen  of  Germany 
have  sat  for  their  likenesses." 

"I  should  feel  honored  if  the  distin- 
guished American  Herr  would  give  me  a 
visit,"  said  the  stranger  gravely,  as  he 
gazed  at  Hoffman  with  an  intensity  which 
recalled  the  previous  scrutiny  of  the  Police- 
Inspector,  "and  I  would  be  charmed  if  he 
would  avail  himself  of  my  poor  skill  to  trans- 
mit his  picturesque  features  to  my  unique 
collection." 

Hoffman  returned  a  polite  evasion  to  this 
invitation,  although  he  was  conscious  of 
being  struck  with  this  second  examination 
of  his  face,  and  the  allusion  to  his  personal- 
ity. 

The  next  morning  the  porter  met  him 
with  a  mysterious  air.  The  Herr  would 
still  like  to  see  the  Schloss?  Hoffman,  who 
had  quite  forgotten  his  adventure  in  the 
park,  looked  vacant.  Ja  wohl  —  the  Hof 
authorities  had  no  doubt  heard  of  his  visit 
and  had  intimated  to  the  hotel  proprietor 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     191 

that  he  might  have  permission  to  visit  the 
model  farm  and  dairy.  As  the  American 
still  looked  indifferent  the  porter  pointed 
out  with  some  importance  that  it  was  a 
Ducal  courtesy  not  to  be  lightly  treated; 
that  few,  indeed,  of  the  burghers  themselves 
had  ever  been  admitted  to  this  eccentric 
whim  of  the  late  Grand  Duchess.  He 
would,  of  course,  be  silent  about  it;  the 
Court  would  not  like  it  known  that  they 
had  made  an  exception  to  their  rules  in 
favor  of  a  foreigner ;  he  would  enter  quickly 
and  boldly  alone.  There  would  be  a  house- 
keeper or  a  dairymaid  to  show  him  over  the 
place. 

More  amused  at  this  important  mystery 
over  what  he,  as  an  American,  was  inclined 
to  classify  as  a  "free  pass"  to  a  somewhat 
heavy  "side  show,"  he  gravely  accepted  the 
permission,  and  the  next  morning  after 
breakfast  set  out  to  visit  the  model  farm 
and  dairy.  Dismissing  his  driver,  as  he 
had  been  instructed,  Hoffman  entered  the 
gateway  with  a  mingling  of  expectancy  and 
a  certain  amusement  over  the  "boldness" 
which  the  porter  had  suggested  should  char- 
acterize his  entrance.  Before  him  was  a 
beautifully-kept  lane  bordered  by  arbored 
Bret  Harte  7— V.  6 


192     THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH. 

and  trellised  roses,  which  seemed  to  sink 
into  the  distance.  He  was  instinctively  fol- 
lowing it  when  he  became  aware  that  he  was 
mysteriously  accompanied  by  a  man  in  the 
livery  of  a  chasseur,  who  was  walking  among 
the  trees  almost  abreast  of  him,  keeping 
pace  with  his  step,  and  after  the  first  intro- 
ductory military  salute  preserving  a  cere- 
monious silence.  There  was  something  so 
ludicrous  in  this  solemn  procession  toward 
a  peaceful,  rural  industry  that  by  the  time 
they  had  reached  the  bottom  of  the  lane  the 
American  had  quite  recovered  his  good  hu- 
mor. But  here  a  new  astonishment  awaited 
him.  Nestling  before  him  in  a  green  am- 
phitheatre lay  a  little  wooden  farmyard  and 
outbuildings,  which  irresistibly  suggested 
that  it  had  been  recently  unpacked  and  set 
up  from  a  box  of  Nuremberg  toys.  The 
symmetrical  trees,  the  galleried  houses  with 
preter naturally  glazed  windows,  even  the 
spotty,  disproportionately  sized  cows  in  the 
white-fenced  barnyards  were  all  unreal, 
wooden  and  toylike. 

Crossing  a  miniature  bridge  over  a  little 
stream,  from  which  he  was  quite  prepared 
to  hook  metallic  fish  with  a  magnet  their 
own  size,  he  looked  about  him  for  some  real 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     193 

being  to  dispel  the  illusion.  The  mysteri- 
ous chasseur  had  disappeared.  But  under 
the  arch  of  an  arbor,  which  seemed  to  be 
composed  of  silk  ribbons,  green  glass  and 
pink  tissue  paper,  stood  a  quaint  but  de- 
lightful figure. 

At  first  it  seemed  as  if  he  had  only  dis- 
pelled one  illusion  for  another.  For  the 
figure  before  him  might  have  been  made  of 
Dresden  china  —  so  daintily  delicate  and 
unique  it  was  in  color  and  arrangement. 
It  was  that  of  a  young  girl  dressed  in  some 
forgotten  mediaeval  peasant  garb  of  velvet 
braids,  silver  stay-laced  corsage,  lace  sleeves 
and  helmeted  metallic  comb.  But,  after 
the  Dresden  method,  the  pale  yellow  of  her 
hair  was  repeated  in  her  bodice,  the  pink  of 
her  cheeks  was  in  the  roses  of  her  chintz 
overskirt.  The  blue  of  her  eyes  was  the 
blue  of  her  petticoat;  the  dazzling  white- 
ness of  her  neck  shone  again  in  the  sleeves 
and  stockings.  Nevertheless  she  was  real 
and  human,  for  the  pink  deepened  in  her 
cheeks  as  Hoffman's  hat  flew  from  his  head, 
and  she  recognized  the  civility  with  a  grave 
little  courtesy. 

"You  have  come  to  see  the  dairy,"  she 
said  in  quaintly  accurate  English;  "I  will 
show  you  the  way." 


194     THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH. 

"If  you  please,"  said  Hoffman,  gaily, 
"but"  — 

"But  what?"  she  said,  facing  him  sud- 
denly with  absolutely  astonished  eyes. 

Hoffman  looked  into  them  so  long  that 
their  frank  wonder  presently  contracted  into 
an  ominous  mingling  of  restraint  and  resent- 
ment. Nothing  daunted,  however,  he  went 
on:  — 

"Couldn't  we  shake  all  that?" 

The  look  of  wonder  returned.  "Shake 
all  that?"  she  repeated.  "I  do  not  under- 
stand." 

"Well!  I  'm  not  positively  aching  to 
see  cows,  and  you  must  be  sick  of  showing 
them.  I  think,  too,  I  've  about  sized  the 
whole  show.  Wouldn't  it  be  better  if  we 
sat  down  in  that  arbor  —  supposing  it  won't 
fall  down  —  and  you  told  me  all  about  the 
lot?  It  would  save  you  a  heap  of  trouble 
and  keep  your  pretty  frock  cleaner  than 
trapesing  round.  Of  course,"  he  said,  with 
a  quick  transition  to  the  gentlest  courtesy, 
"if  you're  conscientious  about  this  thing 
we  '11  go  on  and  not  spare  a  cow.  Consider 
me  in  it  with  you  for  the  whole  morn- 
ing." 

She  looked  at  him  again,  and  then  sud- 


THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH.     195 

denly  broke  into  a  charming  laugh.  It  re- 
vealed a  set  of  strong  white  teeth,  as  well 
as  a  certain  barbaric  trace  in  its  cadence 
which  civilized  restraint  had  not  entirely 
overlaid. 

"I  suppose  she  really  is  a  peasant,  in 
spite  of  that  pretty  frock,"  he  said  to  him- 
self as  he  laughed  too. 

But  her  face  presently  took  a  shade  of 
reserve,  and  with  a  gentle  but  singular  sig- 
nificance she  said :  — 

"I  think  you  must  see  the  dairy." 

Hoffman's  hat  was  in  his  hand  with  a 
vivacity  that  tumbled  the  brown  curls  on 
his  forehead.  "By  all  means,"  he  said  in- 
stantly, and  began  walking  by  her  side  in 
modest  but  easy  silence.  Now  that  he 
thought  her  a  conscientious  peasant  he  was 
quiet  and  respectful. 

Presently  she  lifted  her  eyes,  which,  de- 
spite her  gravity,  had  not  entirely  lost  their 
previous  mirthf ulness,  and  said :  — 

"  But  you  Americans  —  in  your  rich  and 
prosperous  country,  with  your  large  lands 
and  your  great  harvests  —  you  must  know 
all  about  farming." 

"Never  was  in  a  dairy  in  my  life,"  said 
Hoffman  gravely.  "  I  'm  from  the  city  of 


196     THE  INDISCRETTOtf  OF  ELS  BETH. 

New  York,  whore  the  cows  give  swill  milk, 
and  are  kept  in  cellars." 

Her  eyebrows  contracted  prettily  in  an 
effort  to  understand.  Then  she  apparently 
gave  it  up,  and  said  with  a  slanting  glint  of 
mischief  in  her  eyes :  — • 

"Then  you  come  here  like  the  other 
Americans  in  hope  to  see  the  Grand  Duke 
and  Duchess  and  the  Princesses?  " 

"No.  The  fact  is  I  almost  tumbled  into 
a  lot  of  'em  —  standing  like  wax  figures  — 
the  other  side  of  the  park  lodge,  the  other 
day  —  and  got  away  as  soon  as  I  could.  I 
think  I  prefer  the  cows." 

Her  head  was  slightly  turned  away.  He 
had  to  content  himself  with  looking  down 
upon  the  strong  feet  in  their  serviceable  but 
smartly -buckled  shoes  that  uplifted  her  up- 
right figure  as  she  moved  beside  him. 

"Of  course,"  he  added  with  boyish  but 
unmistakable  courtesy,  "if  it 's  part  of  your 
show  to  trot  out  the  family,  why  I  'm  in 
that,  too.  I  dare  say  you  could  make  them 
interesting." 

"But  why,"  she  said  with  her  head  still 
slightly  turned  away  toward  a  figure  —  a 
sturdy-looking  woman,  which,  for  the  first 
time,  Hoffman  perceived  was  walking  in  a 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     19? 

line  with  them  as  the  chasseur  had  done  — 
"why  did  you  come  here  at  all?  " 

"The  first  time  was  a  fool  accident,"  he 
returned  frankly.  "I  was  making  a  short 
cut  through  what  I  thought  was  a  public 
park.  The  second  time  was  because  I  had 
been  rude  to  a  Police-Inspector  whom  I 
found  going  through  my  things,  but  who 
apologized  —  as  I  suppose  —  by  getting  me 
an  invitation  from  the  Grand  Duke  to  come 
here,  and  I  thought  it  only  the  square  thing 
to  both  of  'em  to  accept  it.  But  I  'm 
mighty  glad  I  came ;  I  would  n't  have  missed 
you  for  a  thousand  dollars.  You  see  I 
haven't  struck  any  one  I  cared  to  talk  to 
since."  Here  he  suddenly  remarked  that 
she  had  n't  looked  at  him,  and  that  the  deli- 
cate whiteness  of  her  neck  was  quite  suffused 
with  pink,  and  stopped  instantly.  Presently 
he  said  quite  easily:  — 

"Who's  the  chorus?" 

"The  lady?" 

"Yes.  She  's  watching  us  as  if  she  did  n't 
quite  approve,  you  know  —  just  as  if  she 
didn't  catch  on." 

"She  's  the  head  housekeeper  of  the  farm. 
Perhaps  you  would  prefer  to  have  her  show 
you  the  dairy;  shall  I  call  her?  " 


198     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH. 

The  figure  in  question  was  very  short  and 
stout,  with  voluminous  petticoats. 

"Please  don't;  I'll  stay  without  your 
setting  that  paper-weight  on  me.  But 
here  's  the  dairy.  Don't  let  her  come  inside 
among  those  pans  of  fresh  milk  with  that 
smile,  or  there  '11  be  trouble." 

The  young  girl  paused  too,  made  a  slight 
gesture  with  her  hand,  and  the  figure  passed 
on  as  they  entered  the  dairy.  It  was  beau- 
tifully clean  and  fresh.  With  a  persistence 
that  he  quickly  recognized  as  mischievous 
and  ironical,  and  with  his  characteristic 
adaptability  accepted  with  even  greater 
gravity  and  assumption  of  interest,  she 
showed  him  all  the  details.  From  thence 
they  passed  to  the  farmyard,  where  he  hung 
with  breathless  attention  over  the  names  of 
the  cows  and  made  her  repeat  them.  Al- 
though she  was  evidently  familiar  with  the 
subject  he  could  see  that  her  zeal  was  fitful 
and  impatient. 

"Suppose  we  sit  down,"  he  said,  point- 
ing to  an  ostentatious  rustic  seat  in  the  cen- 
tre of  the  green. 

"Sit  down?"  she  repeated  wonderingly. 
"What  for?" 

"To  talk.  We'll  knock  off  and  call  it 
half  a  day." 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     199 

"But  if  you  are  not  looking  at  the  farm 
you  are,  of  course,  going,"  she  said  quickly. 

"Am  I?  I  don't  think  these  particulars 
were  in  my  invitation." 

She  again  broke  into  a  fit  of  laughter, 
and,  at  the  same  time,  cast  a  bright  eye 
around  the  field. 

"Come,"  he  said  gently,  "there  are  no 
other  sightseers  waiting,  and  your  conscience 
is  clear,"  and  he  moved  toward  the  rustic 
seat. 

"Certainly  not  —  there,"  she  added  in  a 
low  voice. 

They  moved  on  slowly  together  to  a  copse 
of  willows  which  overhung  the  miniature 
stream. 

"You  are  not  staying  long  in  Alstadt?" 
she  said. 

"No;  I  only  came  to  see  the  old  town 
that  my  ancestors  came  from." 

They  were  walking  so  close  together  that 
her  skirt  brushed  his  trousers,  but  she  sud- 
denly drew  away  from  him,  and  looking 
him  fixedly  in  the  eye  said :  — 

"Ah,  you  have  relations  here?" 

"Yes,  but  they  are  dead  two  hundred 
years." 

She  laughed  again  with  a  slight  expres- 


200     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH. 

sion  of  relief.  They  had  entered  the  copse 
and  were  walking  in  dense  shadow  when  she 
suddenly  stopped  and  sat  down  upon  a  rus- 
tic bench.  To  his  surprise  he  found  that 
they  were  quite  alone. 

"Tell  me  about  these  relatives,"  she  said, 
slightly  drawing  aside  her  skirt  to  make 
room  for  him  on  the  seat. 

He  did  not  require  a  second  invitation. 
He  not  only  told  her  all  about  his  ancestral 
progenitors,  but,  I  fear,  even  about  those 
more  recent  and  more  nearly  related  to  him ; 
about  his  own  life,  his  vocation  —  he  was  a 
clever  newspaper  correspondent  with  a  rov- 
ing commission  —  his  ambitions,  his  beliefs 
and  his  romance. 

"And  then,  perhaps,  of  this  visit  —  you 
will  also  make  '  copy  '  ?  " 

He  smiled  at  her  quick  adaptation  of  his 
professional  slang,  but  shook  his  head. 

"No,"  he  said  gravely.  "No  —  this  is 
you.  The  '  Chicago  Interviewer  '  is  big  pay 
and  is  rich,  but  it  has  n't  capital  enough  to 
buy  you  from  me." 

He  gently  slid  his  hand  toward  hers  and 
slipped  his  fingers  softly  around  it.  She 
made  a  slight  movement  of  withdrawal,  but 
even  then  —  as  if  in  f orgetf ulness  or  indif- 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETR.     201 

f erence  —  permitted  her  hand  to  rest  unre- 
sponsively  in  his.  It  was  scarcely  an  en- 
couragement to  gallantry,  neither  was  it  a 
rejection  of  an  unconscious  familiarity. 

"But  you  haven't  told  me  about  your- 
self," he  said. 

"Oh,  I"—  she  returned,  with  her  first 
approach  to  coquetry  in  a  laugh  and  a  side- 
long glance,  "of  what  importance  is  that  to 
you?  It  is  the  Grand  Duchess  and  Her 
Highness  the  Princess  that  you  Americans 
seek  to  know.  I  am  —  what  I  am  —  as  you 
see." 

"You  bet,"  said  Hoffman  with  charming 
decision. 

"I  «£&*£" 

"You  are,  you  know,  and  that's  good 
enough  for  me,  but  I  don't  even  know  your 
name." 

She  laughed  again,  and  after  a  pause, 
said:  "Elsbeth." 

"But  I  couldn't  call  you  by  your  first 
name  on  our  first  meeting,  you  know." 

"Then  you  Americans  are  really  so  very 
formal  —  eh?"  she  said  slily,  looking  at 
her  imprisoned  hand. 

"Well,  yes,"  returned  Hoffman,  disen- 
gaging it»  "I  suppose  we  are  respectful. 


202     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH. 

or  mean  to  be.  But  whom  am  I  to  inquire 
for?  To  write  to?" 

"You  are  neither  to  write  nor  inquire." 

"  What  ?  "  She  had  moved  in  her  seat  so 
as  to  half  face  him  with  eyes  in  which  curi- 
osity, mischief  and  a  certain  seriousness 
alternated,  but  for  the  first  time  seemed 
conscious  of  his  hand,  and  accented  her 
words  with  a  slight  pressure. 

"You  are  to  return  to  your  hotel  pres- 
ently, and  say  to  your  landlord :  '  Pack  up 
my  luggage.  I  have  finished  with  this  old 
town  and  my  ancestors,  and  the  Grand 
Duke  whom  I  do  not  care  to  see,  and  I  shall 
leave  Alstadt  to-morrow ! ' ' 

"Thank  you!     I  don't  catch  on." 

"Of  what  necessity  should  you?  I  have 
said  it.  That  should  be  enough  for  a  chiv- 
alrous American  like  you."  She  again  sig- 
nificantly looked  down  at  her  hand. 

"If  you  mean  that  you  know  the  extent 
of  the  favor  you  ask  of  me,  I  can  say  no 
more,"  he  said  seriously;  "but  give  me  some 
reason  for  it." 

"Ah  so!"  she  said,  with  a  slight  shrug 
of  her  shoulders.  "Then  I  must  tell  you. 
You  say  you  do  not  know  the  Grand  Duke 
and  Duchess.  Well!  they  know  you.  The 


THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH.     203 

day  before  yesterday  you  were  wandering  in 
the  park,  as  you  admit.  You  say,  also, 
you  got  through  the  hedge  and  interrupted 
some  ceremony.  That  ceremony  was  not  a 
Court  function,  Mr.  Hoffman,  but  some- 
thing equally  sacred  —  the  photographing 
of  the  Ducal  family  before  the  Schloss. 
You  say  that  you  instantly  withdrew.  But 
after  the  photograph  was  taken  the  plate 
revealed  a  stranger  standing  actually  by  the 
side  of  the  Princess  Alexandrine,  and  even 
taking  the  pas  of  the  Grand  Duke  himself. 
That  stranger  was  you !  " 

"And  the  picture  was  spoiled,"  said  the 
American,  with  a  quiet  laugh. 

"  I  should  not  say  that,"  returned  the  lady, 
with  a  demure  glance  at  her  companion's 
handsome  face,  "and  I  do  not  believe  that 
the  Princess  —  who  first  saw  the  photograph 
—  thought  so  either.  But  she  is  very  young 
and  willful,  and  has  the  reputation  of  being 
very  indiscreet,  and  unfortunately  she 
begged  the  photographer  not  to  destroy  the 
plate,  but  to  give  it  to  her,  and  to  say  no- 
thing about  it,  except  that  the  plate  was 
defective,  and  to  take  another.  Still  it 
would  have  ended  there  if  her  curiosity  had 
not  led  her  to  confide  a  description  of  the 


204     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH. 

stranger  to  the  Police-Inspector,  with  the 
result  you  know." 

"Then  I  am  expected  to  leave  town  be- 
cause I  accidentally  stumbled  into  a  family 
group  that  was  being  photographed?" 

"Because  a  certain  Princess  was  indis- 
creet enough  to  show  her  curiosity  about 
you,"  corrected  the  fair  stranger. 

"  But  look  here !  I  '11  apologize  to  the 
Princess,  and  offer  to  pay  for  the  plate." 

"Then  you  do  want  to  see  the  Princess?  " 
said  the  young  girl  smiling;  "you  are  like 
the  others." 

"Bother  the  Princess!  I  want  to  see 
you.  And  I  don't  see  how  they  can  prevent 
it  if  I  choose  to  remain." 

"Very  easily.  You  will  find  that  there 
is  something  wrong  with  your  passport,  and 
you  will  be  sent  on  to  Pumpernickel  for 
examination.  You  will  unwittingly  trans- 
gress some  of  the  laws  of  the  town  and  be 
ordered  to  leave  it.  You  will  be  shadowed 
by  the  police  until  you  quarrel  with  them 
—  like  a  free  American  —  and  you  are  con- 
ducted to  the  frontier.  Perhaps  you  will 
strike  an  officer  who  has  insulted  you,  and 
then  you  are  finished  on  the  spot." 

The  American's  crest  rose  palpably  until 
it  cocked  his  straw  hat  over  his  curls. 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     205 

"Suppose  I  am  content  to  risk  it  —  hav- 
ing first  laid  the  whole  matter  and  its  trivial 
cause  before  the  American  Minister,  so  that 
he  could  make  it  hot  for  this  whole  caboodle 
of  a  country  if  they  happened  to  '  down  me,, ' 
By  Jove!  I  should  n't  mind  being  the 
martyr  of  an  international  episode  if  they  'd 
spare  me  long  enough  to  let  me  get  the  first 
'  copy '  over  to  the  other  side."  His  eyes 
sparkled. 

"You  could  expose  them,  but  they  would 
then  deny  the  whole  story,  and  you  have  no 
evidence.  They  would  demand  to  know 
your  informant,  and  I  should  be  disgraced, 
and  the  Princess,  who  is  already  talked 
about,  made  a  subject  of  scandal.  But  no 
matter !  It  is  right  that  an  American's  in- 
dependence shall  not  be  interfered  with." 

She  raised  the  hem  of  her  handkerchief 
to  her  blue  eyes  and  slightly  turned  her 
head  aside.  Hoffman  gently  drew  the  hand- 
kerchief away,  and  in  so  doing  possessed 
himself  of  her  other  hand. 

"Look  here,  Miss  —  Miss  —  Elsbeth. 
You  know  I  would  n't  give  you  away,  what- 
ever happened.  But  couldn't  I  get  hold  of 
that  photographer  —  I  saw  him,  he  wanted 
me  to  sit  to  him  —  and  make  him  tell  me  ?  " 


206     THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH. 

"He  wanted  you  to  sit  to  him,"  she  said 
hurriedly,  "  and  did  you  ?  " 

"No,"  he  replied.  "He  was  a  little  too 
fresh  and  previous,  though  I  thought  he 
fancied  some  resemblance  in  me  to  some- 
body else." 

"Ah!  "  She  said  something  to  herself  in 
German  which  he  did  not  understand,  and 
then  added  aloud :  — 

"You  did  well;  he  is  a  bad  man,  this 
photographer.  Promise  me  you  shall  not 
sit  for  him." 

"How  can  I  if  I  'm  fired  out  of  the  place 
like  this?"  He  added  ruefully,  "But  I'd 
like  to  make  him  give  himself  away  to  me 
somehow." 

"He  will  not,  and  if  he  did  he  would 
deny  it  afterward.  Do  not  go  near  him 
nor  see  him.  Be  careful  that  he  does  not 
photograph  you  with  his  instantaneous  in- 
strument when  you  are  passing.  Now  you 
must  go.  I  must  see  the  Princess." 

"Let  me  go,  too.  I  will  explain  it  to 
her,"  said  Hoffman. 

She  stopped,  looked  at  him  keenly,  and 
attempted  to  withdraw  her  hands.  "Ah, 
then  it  is  so.  It  is  the  Princess  you  wish 
to  see.  You  are  curious  —  you,  too;  you 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     207 

wish  to  see  this  lady  who  is  interested  in 
you.  I  ought  to  have  known  it.  You  are 
all  alike." 

He  met  her  gaze  with  laughing  frankness, 
accepting  her  outburst  as  a  charming  femi- 
nine weakness,  half  jealousy,  half  coquetry 
—  but  retained  her  hands. 

"Nonsense,"  he  said.  "I  wish  to  see 
her  that  I  may  have  the  right  to  see  you  — 
that  you  shall  not  lose  your  place  here 
through  me;  that  I  may  come  again." 

"You  must  never  come  here  again." 

"Then  you  must  come  where  I  am.  We 
will  meet  somewhere  when  you  have  an  after- 
noon off.  You  shall  show  me  the  town  — 
the  houses  of  my  ancestors  —  their  tombs; 
possibly  —  if  the  Grand  Duke  rampages  — 
the  probable  site  of  my  own." 

She  looked  into  his  laughing  eyes  with 
her  clear,  steadfast,  gravely  -  questioning 
blue  ones.  "Do  not  you  Americans  know 
that  it  is  not  the  fashion  here,  in  Germany, 
for  the  young  men  and  the  young  women  to 
walk  together  —  unless  they  are  verlobt  ?  " 

«  Ver  —  which?" 

"  Engaged. "  She  nodded  her  head  thrice : 
viciously,  decidedly,  mischievously. 

"So  much  the  better.'' 


208     THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETff. 

"Ach  Gott  ! "  She  made  a  gesture  of 
hopelessness  at  his  incorrigibility,  and  again 
attempted  to  withdraw  her  hands. 

"I  must  go  now." 

"Well  then,  good-by." 

It  was  easy  to  draw  her  closer  by  simply 
lowering  her  still  captive  hands.  Then  he 
suddenly  kissed  her  coldly-startled  lips,  and 
instantly  released  her.  She  as  instantly 
vanished. 

"Elsbeth,"  he  called  quickly.  "Els- 
beth!" 

Her  now  really  frightened  face  reappeai-ed 
with  a  heightened  color  from  the  dense  foli- 
age —  quite  to  his  astonishment. 

"Hush,"  she  said,  with  her  finger  on  her 
lips.  "Are  you  mad?" 

"I  only  wanted  to  remind  you  to  square 
me  with  the  Princess,"  he  laughed,  as  her 
head  disappeared. 

He  strolled  back  toward  the  gate.  Scarcely 
had  he  quitted  the  shrubbery  before  the  same 
chasseur  made  his  appearance  with  precisely 
the  same  salute;  and,  keeping  exactly  the 
same  distance,  accompanied  him  to  the 
gate.  At  the  corner  of  the  street  he  hailed 
a  drosky  and  was  driven  to  his  hotel. 

The     landlord     came    up    smiling.     He 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     209 

trusted  that  the  Herr  had  greatly  enjoyed 
himself  at  the  Schloss.  It  was  a  distin- 
guished honor  —  in  fact,  quite  unprece- 
dented. Hoffman,  while  he  determined  not 
to  commit  himself,  nor  his  late  fair  compan- 
ion, was,  nevertheless,  anxious  to  learn 
something  more  of  her  relations  to  the 
Schloss.  So  pretty,  so  characteristic,  and 
marked  a  figure  must  be  well  known  to 
sightseers.  Indeed,  once  or  twice  the  idea 
had  crossed  his  mind  with  a  slightly  jealous 
twinge  that  left  him  more  conscious  of  the 
impression  she  had  made  on  him  than  he 
had  deemed  possible.  He  asked  if  the 
model  farm  and  dairy  were  always  shown 
by  the  same  attendants. 

"Ach  Gott!  no  doubt,  yes;  His  Royal 
Highness  had  quite  a  retinue  when  he  was 
in  residence." 

"And  were  these  attendants  in  costume?" 

"There  was  undoubtedly  a  livery  for  the 
servants." 

Hoffman  felt  a  slight  republican  irritation 
at  the  epithet  —  he  knew  not  why.  But 
this  costume  was  rather  an  historical  one; 
surely  it  was  not  intrusted  to  every-day 
menials  —  and  he  briefly  described  it. 

His     host's     blank     curiosity     suddenly 


210  THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH. 

changed  to  a  look  of  mysterious  and  arch 
intelligence. 

"Ach  Gott !  yes !"  He  remembered  now 
(with  his  finger  on  his  nose)  that  when  there 
was  a  fest  at  the  Schloss  the  farm  and  dairy 
were  filled  with  shepherdesses,  in  quaint 
costume  worn  by  the  ladies  of  the  Grand 
Duke's  own  theatrical  company,  who  as- 
sumed the  characters  with  great  vivacity. 
Surely  it  was  the  same,  and  the  Grand 
Duke  had  treated  the  Herr  to  this  special 
courtesy.  Yes  —  there  was  one  pretty, 
blonde  young  lady — theFraulein  Wimpfen- 
,  buttel,  a  most  popular  soubrette,  who  would 
play  it  to  the  life!  And  the  description 
fitted  her  to  a  hair!  Ah,  there  was  no 
doubt  of  it ;  many  persons,  indeed,  had 
been  so  deceived. 

But  happily,  now  that  he  had  given  him 
the  wink,  the  Herr  could  corroborate  it 
himself  by  going  to  the  theatre  to-night. 
Ah,  it.  would  be  a  great  joke — quite  colos- 
sal !  if  he  took  a  front  seat  where  she  could 
see  him.  And  the  good  man  rubbed  his 
hands  in  gleeful  anticipation. 

Hoffman  had  listened  to  him  with  a  slow 
repugnance  that  was  only  equal  to  his  grad- 
ual conviction  that  the  explanation  was  a 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETR.     211 

true  one,  and  that  he  himself  had  been  ridic- 
ulously deceived.  The  mystery  of  his  fair 
companion's  costume,  which  he  had  accepted 
as  part  of  the  "show;"  the  inconsistency 
of  her  manner  and  her  evident  occupation ; 
her  undeniable  wish  to  terminate  the  whole 
episode  with  that  single  interview;  her  min- 
gling- of  worldly  aplomb  and  rustic  inno- 
cence; her  perfect  self-control  and  experi- 
enced acceptance  of  his  gallantry  under  the 
simulated  attitude  of  simplicity  —  all  now 
struck  him  as  perfectly  comprehensible.  He 
recalled  the  actress'  inimitable  touch  in  cer- 
tain picturesque  realistic  details  in  the  dairy 
—  which  she  had  not  spared  him ;  he  recog- 
nized it  now  even  in  their  bowered  confi- 
dences (how  like  a  pretty  ballet  scene  their 
whole  interview  on  the  rustic  bench  was!), 
and  it  breathed  through  their  entire  conver- 
sation—  to  their  theatrical  parting  at  the 
close!  And  the  whole  story  of  the  photo- 
graph was,  no  doubt,  as  pure  a  dramatic 
invention  as  the  rest!  The  Princess'  ro- 
mantic interest  in  him  —  that  Princess  who 
had  never  appeared  (why  had  he  not  detected 
the  old,  well-worn,  sentimental  situation 
here?) — was  all  a  part  of  it.  The  dark, 
mysterious  hint  of  his  persecution  by  the 


212     THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH. 

police  was  a  necessary  culmination  to  the 
little  farce.  Thank  Heaven!  he  had  not 
"risen"  at  the  Princess,  even  if  he  had 
given  himself  away  to  the  clever  actress  in 
her  own  humble  role.  Then  the  humor  of 
the  whole  situation  predominated  and  he 
laughed  until  the  tears  came  to  his  eyes, 
and  his  forgotten  ancestors  might  have 
turned  over  in  their  graves  without  his  heed- 
ing them.  And  with  this  humanizing  influ- 
ence upon  him  he  went  to  the  theatre. 

It  was  capacious  even  for  the  town,  and 
although  the  performance  was  a  special  one 
he  had  no  difficulty  in  getting  a  whole  box 
to  himself.  He  tried  to  avoid  this  public 
isolation  by  sitting  close  to  the  next  box, 
where  there  was  a  solitary  occupant  —  an 
officer  —  apparently  as  lonely  as  himself. 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  that  when  his 
fair  deceiver  appeared  he  would  let  her  see 
by  his  significant  applause  that  he  recog- 
nized her,  but  bore  no  malice  for  the  trick 
she  had  played  on  him.  After  all,  he  had 
kissed  her  —  he  had  no  right  to  complain. 
If  she  should  recognize  him,  and  this  recog- 
nition led  to  a  withdrawal  of  her  prohibi- 
tion, and  their  better  acquaintance,  he  would 
'be  a  fool  to  cavil  at  her  pleasant  artifice. 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     213 

Her  vocation  was  certainly  a  more  indepen- 
dent and  original  one  than  that  he  had  sup- 
posed; for  its  social  quality  and  inequality 
he  cared  nothing.  He  found  himself  long- 
ing for  the  glance  of  her  calm  blue  eyes,  for 
the  pleasant  smile  that  broke  the  seriousness 
of  her  sweetly-restrained  lips.  There  was 
no  doubt  that  he  should  know  her  even  as 
the  heroine  of  "Der  Czar  und  der  Zimmer- 
mann  "  on  the  bill  before  him.  He  was  be- 
coming impatient.  And  the  performance 
evidently  was  waiting.  A  stir  in  the  outer 
gallery,  the  clatter  of  sabres,  the  filing  of 
uniforms  into  the  royal  box,  and  a  trium- 
phant burst  from  the  orchestra  showed  the 
cause.  As  a  few  ladies  and  gentlemen  in 
full  evening  dress  emerged  from  the  back- 
ground of  uniforms  and  took  their  places  in 
the  front  of  the  box,  Hoffman  looked  with 
some  interest  for  the  romantic  Princess. 
Suddenly  he  saw  a  face  and  shoulders  in  a 
glitter  of  diamonds  that  startled  him,  and 
then  a  glance  that  transfixed  him. 

He  leaned  over  to  his  neighbor.  "Who 
is  the  young  lady  in  the  box? " 

"The  Princess  Alexandrine." 

"I  mean  the  young  lady  in  blue  with 
blonde  hair  and  blue  eyes." 


214     THE  INDISCRETION   OF  ELSBETH. 

"It  is  the  Princess  Alexandrine  Elsbeth 
Marie  Stephanie,  the  daughter  of  the  Grand 
Duke  —  there  is  none  other  there." 

"Thank  you." 

He  sat  silently  looking  at  the  rising  cur- 
tain and  the  stage.  Then  he  rose  quietly, 
gathered  his  hat  and  coat  and  left  the  box. 
When  he  reached  the  gallery  he  turned  in- 
stinctively and  looked  back  at  the  royal 
box.  Her  eyes  had  followed  him,  and  as 
he  remained  a  moment  motionless  in  the 
doorway  her  lips  parted  in  a  grateful  smile, 
and  she  waved  her  fan  with  a  faint  but  un- 
mistakable gesture  of  farewell. 

The  next  morning  he  left  Alstadt.  There 
was  some  little  delay  at  the  Zoll  on  the  fron- 
tier, and  when  Hoffman  received  back  his 
trunk  it  was  accompanied  by  a  little  sealed 
packet  which  was  handed  to  him  by  the 
Custom-house  Inspector.  Hoffman  did  not 
open  it  until  he  was  alone. 

There  hangs  upon  the  wall  of  his  modest 
apartment  in  New  York  a  narrow,  irregular 
photograph  ingeniously  framed,  of  himself 
standing  side  by  side  with  a  young  German 
girl,  who,  in  the  estimation  of  his  compatri- 
ots, is  by  no  means  stylish  and  only  passa- 


THE  INDISCRETION  OF  ELSBETH.     215 

bly  good-looking.  When  he  is  joked  by  his 
friends  about  the  post  of  honor  given  to  this 
production,  and  questioned  as  to  the  lady, 
he  remains  silent.  The  Princess  Alexan- 
drine Elsbeth  Marie  Stephanie  von  West- 
phalen-Alstadt,  among  her  other  royal  qual- 
ities, knew  whom  to  trust. 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

IN  another  chronicle  which  dealt  with 
the  exploits  of  "  Chu  Chu,"  a  Californian 
mustang,  I  gave  some  space  to  the  accom- 
plishments of  Enriquez  Saltillo,  who  as- 
sisted me  in  training  her,  and  who  was  also 
brother  to  Consuelo  Saltillo,  the  young  lady 
to  whom  I  had  freely  given  both  the  mus- 
tang and  my  youthful  affections.  I  con- 
sider it  a  proof  of  the  superiority  of  mascu- 
line friendship  that  neither  the  subsequent 
desertion  of  the  mustang  nor  the  young  lady 
ever  made  the  slightest  difference  to  Enri- 
quez or  me  in  our  exalted  amity.  To  a 
wondering  doubt  as  to  what  I  ever  could 
possibly  have  seen  in  his  sister  to  admire 
he  joined  a  tolerant  skepticism  of  the  whole 
sex.  This  he  was  wont  to  express  in  that 
marvelous  combination  of  Spanish  precision 
and  California  slang  for  which  he  was  justly 
famous.  "  As  to  thees  women  and  their 
little  game,"  he  would  say,  "  believe  me, 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ.      217 

my  friend,  your  old  Onele  'Enry  is  not  in 
it.  No  ;  he  will  ever  take  a  back  seat  when 
lof  e  is  around.  For  why  ?  Regard  me  here ! 
If  she  is  a  horse,  you  shall  say,  '  She  will 
buck-jump,' '  She  will  ess-shy,' '  She  will  not 
arrive,'  or  '  She  will  arrive  too  quick.'  But 
if  it  is  thees  women,  where  are  you?  For 
when  you  shall  say,  '  She  will  ess-shy,'  look 
you,  she  will  walk  straight ;  or  she  will  re- 
main tranquil  when  you  think  she  buck- 
jump  ;  or  else  she  will  arrive  and,  look  you, 
you  will  not.  You  shall  get  left.  It  is  ever 
so.  My  father  and  the  brother  of  my  father 
have  both  make  court  to  my  mother  when 
she  was  but  a  senorita.  My  father  think 
she  have  lofe  his  brother  more.  So  he  say 
to  her :  *  It  is  enof e ;  tranquillize  yourself. 
I  will  go.  I  will  efface  myself.  AdiosI 
Shake  hands  !  Ta-ta !  So  long  !  See  you 
again  in  the  fall.'  And  what  make  my 
mother  ?  Regard  me !  She  marry  my  fa- 
ther—  on  the  instant!  Of  thees  women, 
believe  me,  Pancho,  you  shall  know  nothing. 
Not  even  if  they  shall  make  you  the  son  of 
your  father  or  his  nephew." 

I  have  recalled  this  characteristic  speech 
to  show  the  general  tendency  of  Enriquez's 
convictions  at  the  opening  of  this  little 


218      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

story.  It  is  only  fair  to  say,  however,  that 
his  usual  attitude  toward  the  sex  he  so 
cheerfully  maligned  exhibited  little  appre- 
hension or  caution  in  dealing  with  them. 
Among  the  frivolous  and  light-minded  in- 
termixture of  his  race  he  moved  with  great 
freedom  and  popularity.  He  danced  well ; 
when  we  went  to  fandangos  together  his 
agility  and  the  audacity  of  his  figures  always 
procured  him  the  prettiest  partners,  his  pro- 
fessed sentiments,  I  presume,  shielding  him 
from  subsequent  jealousies,  heart-burnings, 
or  envy.  I  have  a  vivid  recollection  of  him 
in  the  mysteries  of  the  semicuacua,  a  some- 
what corybantic  dance  which  left  much  to 
the  invention  of  the  performers,  and  very 
little  to  the  imagination  of  the  spectator. 
In  one  of  the  figures  a  gaudy  handkerchief, 
waved  more  or  less  gracefully  by  dancer  and 
danseuse  before  the  dazzled  eyes  of  each 
other,  acted  as  love's  signal,  and  was  used 
to  express  alternate  admiration  and  indiffer- 
ence, shyness  and  audacity,  fear  and  trans- 
port, coyness  and  coquetry,  as  the  dance 
proceeded.  I  need  not  say  that  Enriquez's 
pantomimic  illustration  of  these  emotions 
was  peculiarly  extravagant ;  but  it  was  al- 
ways performed  and  accepted  with  a  gravity 


TEE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.       219 

that  was  an  essential  feature  of  the  dance. 
At  such  times  sighs  would  escape  him  which 
were  supposed  to  portray  the  incipient  stages 
of  passion;  snorts  of  jealousy  burst  from 
him  at  the  suggestion  of  a  rival;  he  was 
overtaken  by  a  sort  of  St.  Vitus's  dance 
that  expressed  his  timidity  in  making  the 
first  advances  of  affection ;  the  scorn  of  his 
lady-love  struck  him  with  something  like  a 
dumb  ague ;  and  a  single  gesture  of  invita- 
tion from  her  produced  marked  delirium. 
All  this  was  very  like  Enriquez ;  but  on  the 
particular  occasion  to  which  I  refer,  I  think 
no  one  was  prepared  to  see  him  begin  the 
figure  with  the  waving  of  four  handker- 
chiefs !  Yet  this  he  did,  pirouetting,  caper- 
ing, brandishing  his  silken  signals  like  a 
bellerina's  scarf  in  the  languishment  or  fire 
of  passion,  until,  in  a  final  figure,  where  the 
conquered  and  submitting  fair  one  usually 
sinks  into  the  arms  of  her  partner,  need  it 
be  said  that  the  ingenious  Enriquez  was 
found  in  the  centre  of  the  floor  supporting 
four  of  the  dancers!  Yet  he  was  by  no 
means  unduly  excited  either  by  the  plaudits 
of  the  crowd  or  by  his  evident  success  with 
the  fair.  "Ah,  believe  me,  it  is  nothing," 
he  said  quietly,  rolling  a  fresh  cigarette  as 


220      THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

lie  leaned  against  the  doorway.  "  Possibly, 
I  shall  have  to  offer  the  chocolate  or  the 
wine  to  thees  girls,  or  make  to  them  a  prome- 
nade in  the  moonlight  on  the  verandah.  It 
is  ever  so.  Unless,  my  friend,"  he  said, 
suddenly  turning  toward  me  in  an  excess 
of  chivalrous  self-abnegation,  "  unless  you 
shall  yourself  take  my  place.  Behold,  I 
gif  them  to  you !  I  vamos  !  I  vanish  !  1 
make  track !  I  skedaddle !  "  I  think  he 
would  have  carried  his  extravagance  to  the 
point  of  summoning  his  four  gypsy  witches 
of  partners,  and  committing  them  to  my 
care,  if  the  crowd  had  not  at  that  moment 
parted  before  the  remaining  dancers,  and 
left  one  of  the  on-lookers,  a  tall,  slender  girl, 
calmly  surveying  them  through  gold-rimmed 
eye-glasses  in  complete  critical  absorption. 
I  stared  in  amazement  and  consternation ; 
for  I  recognized  in  the  fair  stranger  Miss 
Urania  Mannersley,  the  Congregational 
minister's  niece ! 

Everybody  knew  Ramie  Mannersley 
throughout  the  length  and  breadth  of  the 
Encinal.  She  was  at  once  the  envy  and 
the  goad  of  the  daughters  of  those  South- 
western and  Eastern  immigrants  who  had 
settled  in  the  valley.  She  was  correct,  she 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.      221 

was  critical,  she  was  faultless  and  observant. 
She  was  proper,  yet  independent;  she  was 
highly  educated  ;  she  was  suspected  of  know- 
ing Latin  and  Greek;  she  even  spelled  cor- 
rectly !  She  could  wither  the  plainest  field 
nosegay  in  the  hands  of  other  girls  by  giv- 
ing the  flowers  their  botanical  names.  She 
never  said,  "  Ain't  you  ? "  but  "  Are  n't 
you  ?  "  She  looked  upon  "  Did  I  which?  " 
as  an  incomplete  and  imperfect  form  of 
"What  did  I  do?"  She  quoted  from 
Browning  and  Tennyson,  and  was  believed 
to  have  read  them.  She  was  from  Boston. 
What  could  she  possibly  be  doing  at  a  free- 
and-easy  fandango  ? 

Even  if  these  facts  were  not  already  fa- 
miliar to  every  one  there,  her  outward  ap- 
pearance would  have  attracted  attention. 
Contrasted  with  the  gorgeous  red,  black, 
and  yellow  skirts  of  the  dancers,  her  plain, 
tightly  fitting  gown  and  hat,  all  of  one  deli- 
cate gray,  were  sufficiently  notable  in  them- 
selves, even  had  they  not  seemed,  like  the 
girl  herself,  a  kind  of  quiet  protest  to  the 
glaring  flounces  before  her.  Her  small, 
straight  waist  and  flat  back  brought  into 
greater  relief  the  corsetless,  waistless,  sway- 
ing figures  of  the  Mexican  girls,  and  her 


222       TEE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

long,  slim,  well-booted  feet,  peeping  from 
the  stiff,  white  edges  of  her  short  skirt, 
made  their  broad,  low-quartered  slippers, 
held  on  by  the  big  toe,  appear  more  prepos- 
terous than  ever.  Suddenly  she  seemed  to 
realize  that  she  was  standing  there  alone, 
but  without  fear  or  embarrassment.  She 
drew  back  a  little,  glancing  carelessly  be- 
hind her  as  if  missing  some  previous  com- 
panion, and  then  her  eyes  fell  upon  mine. 
She  smiled  an  easy  recognition ;  then  a  mo- 
ment later,  her  glance  rested  mo  re  curiously 
upon  Enriquez,  who  was  still  by  my  side. 
I  disengaged  myself  and  instantly  joined 
her,  particularly  as  I  noticed  that  a  few  of 
the  other  bystanders  were  beginning  to 
stare  at  her  with  little  reserve. 

"'Ts:ft'fc  it  the  most  extraordinary  thing 
you  ever  saw?"  she  said  quietly.  Then, 
presently  noticing  the  look  of  embarrass- 
ment on  my  face,  she  went  on,  more  by  way 
of  conversation  than  of  explanation :  "I  just 
left  uncle  making  a  call  on  a  parishioner 
next  door,  and  was  going  home  with  Jocasta 
(a  peon  servant  of  her  uncle's),  when  I 
heard  the  music,  and  dropped  in.  I  don't 
know  what  has  become  of  her,"  she  added, 
glancing  round  the  room  again;  "she 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENBIQUEZ.      223 

seemed  perfectly  wild  when  she  saw  that 
creature  over  there  bounding  about  with 
his  handkerchiefs.  You  were  speaking  to 
him  just  now.  Do  tell  me  —  is  he  real  ?  " 

"  I  should  think  there  was  little  doubt  of 
that,"  I  said  with  a  vague  laugh. 

"  You  know  what  I  mean,"  she  said  sim- 
ply. "Is  he  quite  sane?  Does  he  do  that 
because  he  likes  it,  or  is  he  paid  for  it  ?  " 

This  was  too  much.  I  pointed  out  some- 
what hurriedly  that  he  was  a  scion  of  one  of 
the  oldest  Castilian  families,  that  the  per- 
formance was  a  national  gypsy  dance  which 
he  had  joined  in  as  a  patriot  and  a  patron, 
and  that  he  was  my  dearest  friend.  At  the 
same  time  I  was  conscious  that  I  wished  she 
hadn't  seen  his  last  performance. 

"  You  don't  mean  to  say  that  all  that  he 
did  was  in  the  dance  ?  "  she  said.  "  I  don't 
believe  it.  It  was  only  like  him."  As  I 
hesitated  over  this  palpable  truth,  she  went 
on :  "I  do  wish  he 'd  do  it  again.  Don't 
you  think  you  could  make  him?  " 

"  Perhaps  he  might  if  you  asked  him,"  I 
said  a  little  maliciously. 

"  Of  course  I  should  n't  do  that,"  she  re- 
turned  quietly.     "  All   the  same,  I  do  be- 
lieve he  is  really  going  to  do  it  —  or  some- 
thing else.     Do  look!" 
Bret  Harte  8— V.  6 


224      THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

I  looked,  and  to  my  horror  saw  that  Enri- 
quez,  possibly  incited  by  the  delicate  gold 
eye-glasses  of  Miss  Mannersley,  had  divested 
himself  of  his  coat,  and  was  winding  the 
four  handkerchiefs,  tied  together,  pictu- 
resquely around  his  waist,  preparatory  to 
some  new  performance.  I  tried  furtively  to 
give  him  a  warning  look,  but  in  vain. 

"  Isn't  he  really  too  absurd  for  any* 
thing  ? "  said  Miss  Mannersley,  yet  with  a 
certain  comfortable  anticipation  in  her  voice. 
"  You  know,  I  never  saw  anything  like  this 
before.  I  wouldn't  have  believed  such  a 
creature  could  have  existed." 

Even  had  I  succeeded  in  warning  him,  I 
doubt  if  it  would  have  been  of  any  avail. 
For,  seizing  a  guitar  from  one  of  the  musi- 
cians, he  struck  a  few  chords,  and  suddenly 
began  to  zigzag  into  the  centre  of  the  floor, 
swaying  his  body  languishingly  from  side  to 
side  in  time  with  the  music  and  the  pitch  of 
a  thin  Spanish  tenor.  It  was  a  gypsy  love- 
song.  Possibly  Miss  Mannersley's  lingual 
accomplishments  did  not  include  a  know- 
ledge of  Castilian,  but  she  could  not  fail  to 
see  that  the  gestures  and  illustrative  panto- 
mime were  addressed  to  her.  Passionately 
assuring  her  that  she  was  the  most  favored 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENBIQUEZ.      225 

daughter  of  the  Virgin,  that  her  eyes  were 
like  votive  tapers,  and  yet  in  the  same  breath 
accusing  her  of  being  a  "  brigand  "  and  "  as- 
sassin "  in  her  attitude  toward  "  his  heart," 
he  balanced  with  quivering  timidity  toward 
her,  threw  an  imaginary  cloak  in  front  of 
her  neat  boots  as  a  carpet  for  her  to  tread 
on,  and  with  a  final  astonishing  pirouette 
and  a  languishing  twang  of  his  guitar,  sank 
on  one  knee,  and  blew,  with  a  rose,  Q  kiss  at 
her  feet. 

If  I  had  been  seriously  angry  with  him 
before  for  his  grotesque  extravagance,  I 
could  have  pitied  him  now  for  the  young 
girl's  absolute  unconsciousness  of  anything 
but  his  utter  ludicrousness.  The  applause 
of  dancers  and  bystanders  was  instantaneous 
and  hearty;  her  only  contribution  to  it  was 
a  slight  parting  of  her  thin  red  lips  in  a 
half-incredulous  smile.  In  the  silence  that 
followed  the  applause,  as  Enriquez  walked 
pantingly  away,  I  heard  her  saying,  half  to 
herself,  "  Certainly  a  most  extraordinary 
creature  !  "  In  my  indignation  I  could  not 
help  turning  suddenly  upon  her  and  looking 
straight  into  her  eyes.  They  were  brown, 
with  that  peculiar  velvet  opacity  common 
to  the  pupils  of  near-sighted  persons,  and 


226      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

seemed  to  defy  internal  scrutiny.  She  only 
repeated  carelessly,  "  Isn't  he  ?  "  and  added : 
"  Please  see  if  you  can  find  Jocasta.  I  sup- 
pose we  ought  to  be  going  now ;  and  I  dare 
say  he  won't  be  doing  it  again.  Ah  !  there 
she  is.  Good  gracious,  child !  what  have 
you  got  there  ?  " 

It  was  Enriquez'  rose  which  Jocasta  had 
picked  up,  and  was  timidly  holding  out  to- 
ward her  mistress. 

"  Heavens !  I  don't  want  it.  Keep  it 
yourself." 

I  walked  with  them  to  the  door,  as  I  did 
not  fancy  a  certain  glitter  in  the  black  eyes 
of  the  Senoritas  Manuela  and  Pepita,  who 
were  watching  her  curiously.  But  I  think 
she  was  as  oblivious  of  this  as  she  was  of 
Enriquez'  particular  attentions.  As  we 
reached  the  street  I  felt  that  I  ought  to  say 
something  more. 

"  You  know,"  I  began  casually,  "  that  al- 
though those  poor  people  meet  here  in  this 
public  way,  their  gathering  is  really  quite 
a  homely  pastoral  and  a  national  custom ; 
and  these  girls  are  all  honest,  hard-working 
peons  or  servants  enjoying  themselves  in 
quite  the  old  idyllic  fashion." 

"  Certainly,"  said  the  young  girl,  half  ab- 


THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENRIQUEZ.      227 

stractedly.  "  Of  course  it 's  a  Moorish 
dance,  originally  brought  over,  I  suppose, 
by  those  old  Andalusian  immigrants  two 
hundred  years  ago.  It 's  quite  Arabic  in  its 
suggestions.  I  have  got  something  like  it 
in  an  old  cancionero  I  picked  up  at  a  book- 
stall in  Boston.  But,"  she  added,  with  a 
gasp  of  reminiscent  satisfaction,  "  that 's  not 
like  him  !  Oh,  no  !  he  is  decidedly  original. 
Heavens !  yes." 

I  turned  away  in  some  discomfiture  to 
join  Enriquez,  who  was  calmly  awaiting  me, 
with  a  cigarette  in  his  mouth,  outside  the 
sala.  Yet  he  looked  so  unconscious  of  any 
previous  absurdity  that  I  hesitated  in  what 
I  thought  was  a  necessary  warning.  He, 
however,  quickly  precipitated  it.  Glancing 
after  the  retreating  figures  of  the  two  wo- 
men, he  said,  "  Thees  mees  from  Boston  is 
return  to  her  house.  You  do  not  accompany 
her  ?  I  shall.  Behold  me  —  I  am  there." 
But  I  linked  my  arm  firmly  in  his.  Then  I 
pointed  out,  first,  that  she  was  already  ac- 
companied by  a  servant ;  secondly,  that  if  I, 
who  knew  her,  had  hesitated  to  offer  myself 
as  an  escort,  it  was  hardly  proper  for  him, 
a  perfect  stranger,  to  take  that  liberty  ;  that 
Miss  Mannersley  was  very  punctilious  of 


228      THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

etiquette,  which  he,  as  a  Castilian  gentle- 
man, ought  to  appreciate. 

"  But  will  she  not  regard  lofe  —  the  ad- 
miration excessif  ?  "  he  said,  twirling  his  thin 
little  mustache  meditatively. 

"  No ;  she  will  not,"  I  returned  sharply ; 
"and  you  ought  to  understand  that  she  is 
on  a  different  level  from  your  Manuelas  and 
Carmens." 

"  Pardon,  my  friend,"  he  said  gravely ; 
"  thees  women  are  ever  the  same.  There 
is  a  proverb  in  my  language.  Listen : 
'Whether  the  sharp  blade  of  the  Toledo 
pierce  the  satin  or  the  goatskin,  it  shall  find 
behind  it  ever  the  same  heart  to  wound.' 
I  am  that  Toledo  blade  —  possibly  it  is  you, 
my  friend.  Wherefore,  let  us  together  pur- 
sue this  girl  of  Boston  on  the  instant." 

But  I  kept  my  grasp  on  Enriquez'  arm, 
and  succeeded  in  restraining  his  mercurial 
impulses  for  the  moment.  He  halted,  and 
puffed  vigorously  at  his  cigarette;  but  the 
next  instant  he  started  forward  again.  "  Let 
us,  however,  follow  with  discretion  in  the 
rear ;  we  shall  pass  her  house  ;  we  shall  gaze 
at  it ;  it  shall  touch  her  heart." 

Ridiculous  as  was  this  following  of  the 
young  girl  we  had  only  just  parted  from,  I 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.      229 

nevertheless  knew  that  Enriquez  was  quite 
capable  of  attempting  it  alone,  and  I  thought 
it  better  to  humor  him  by  consenting  to 
walk  with  him  in  that  direction  ;  but  I  felt 
it  necessary  to  say  : 

"  I  ought  to  warn  you  that  Miss  Manners- 
ley  already  looks  upon  your  performances 
at  the  sala  as  something  outre  and  peculiar, 
and  if  I  were  you  I  should  n't  do  anything 
to  deepen  that  impression," 

"  You  are  saying  she  ees  shock  ?  "  said 
Enriquez,  gravely. 

I  felt  I  could  not  conscientiously  say  that 
she  was  shocked,  and  he  saw  my  hesitation. 
"  Then  she  have  jealousy  of  the  Senoritas," 
he  observed,  with  insufferable  complacency. 
"  You  observe  !  I  have  already  said.  It  is 
ever  so." 

I  could  stand  it  no  longer.  "  Look  here, 
Harry,"  I  said,  "  if  you  must  know  it,  she 
looks  upon  you  as  an  acrobat  —  a  paid  per- 
former." 

"  Ah  !  "—  his  black  eyes  sparkled  —  "  the 
torero,  the  man  who  fights  the  bull,  he  is 
also  an  acrobat." 

"  Yes  ;  but  she  thinks  you  a  clown  !  —  a 
gracioso  de  teatro, — there!" 

"  Then  I  have  make  her  laugh  ?  "  he  said 
coolly. 


230      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

I  don't  think  lie  had  ;  but  I  shrugged  my 
shoulders. 

"  Bueno !  "  he  said  cheerfully.  "  Lofe, 
he  begin  with  a  laugh,  he  make  feenish  with 
a  sigh." 

I  turned  to  look  at  him  in  the  moonlight. 
His  face  presented  its  habitual  Spanish 
gravity  —  a  gravity  that  was  almost  ironical. 
His  small  black  eyes  had  their  characteristic 
irresponsible  audacity  —  the  irresponsibility 
of  the  vivacious  young  animal.  It  could  not 
be  possible  that  he  was  really  touched  with 
the  placid  frigidities  of  Miss  Mannersley. 
I  remembered  his  equally  elastic  gallantries 
with  Miss  Pinky  Smith,  a  blonde  Western 
belle,  from  which  both  had  harmlessly 
rebounded.  As  we  walked  on  slowly  I  con- 
tinued more  persuasively :  "  Of  course  this 
is  only  your  nonsense ;  but  don't  you  see, 
Miss  Mannersley  thinks  it  all  in  earnest  and 
really  your  nature?"  I  hesitated,  for  it 
suddenly  struck  me  that  it  was  really  his 
nature.  "  And  —  hang  it  all !  —  you  don't 
want  her  to  believe  you  a  common  buffoon, 
or  some  intoxicated  muchaco." 

"  Intoxicated  ?  "  repeated  Enriquez,  with 
exasperating  languishment.  "  Yes  ;  that  is 
the  word  that  shall  express  itself.  My  friend, 


THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENBIQUEZ.      231 

you  have  made  a  shot  in  the  centre  —  you 
have  ring  the  bell  every  time !  It  is  intoxi- 
cation —  but  not  of  aquardiente.  Look !  I 
have  long  time  an  ancestor  of  whom  is  a 
pretty  story.  One  day  in  church  he  have 
seen  a  young  girl  —  a  mere  peasant  girl  — 
pass  to  the  confessional.  He  look  her  in  her 
eye,  he  stagger,"  —  here  Enriquez  wobbled 
pantomimically  into  the  road,  —  "  he  fall !  " 
—  he  would  have  suited  the  action  to  the 
word  if  I  had  not  firmly  held  him  up. 
"They  have  take  him  home,  where  he  have 
remain  without  his  clothes,  and  have  dance 
and  sing.  But  it  was  the  drunkenness  of 
lofe.  And,  look  you,  thees  village  girl  was 
a  nothing,  not  even  pretty.  The  name  of 
my  ancestor  was  "  — 

"  Don  Quixote  de  la  Mancha,"  I  suggested 
maliciously.  "  I  suspected  as  much.  Come 
along.  That  will  do." 

"  My  ancestor's  name,"  continued  Enri- 
quez, gravely,  "  was  Antonio  Hermenegildo 
de  Salvatierra,  which  is  not  the  same. 
Thees  Don  Quixote  of  whom  you  speak  exist 
not  at  all." 

"  Never  mind.  Only,  for  heaven's  sake, 
as  we  are  nearing  the  house,  don't  make  a 
fool  of  yourself  again." 


232      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

It  was  a  wonderful  moonlight  night. 
The  deep  redwood  porch  of  the  Mannersley 
parsonage,  under  the  shadow  of  a  great  oak, 
—  the  largest  in  the  Encinal,  —  was  dia- 
pered in  black  and  silver.  As  the  women 
stepped  upon  the  porch  their  shadows  were 
silhouetted  against  the  door.  Miss  Man- 
nersley paused  for  an  instant,  and  turned  to 
give  a  last  look  at  the  beauty  of  the  night 
as  Jocasta  entered.  Her  glance  fell  upon 
us  as  we  passed.  She  nodded  carelessly 
and  unaffectedly  to  me,  but  as  she  recognized 
Enriquez  she  looked  a  little  longer  at  him 
with  her  previous  cold  and  invincible  curi- 
osity. To  my  horror  Enriquez  began 
instantly  to  affect  a  slight  tremulousness  of 
gait  and  a  difficulty  of  breathing ;  but  I 
gripped  his  arm  savagely,  and  managed  to 
get  him  past  the  house  as  the  door  closed 
finally  on  the  young  lady. 

"  You  do  not  comprehend,  friend  Pancho," 
he  said  gravely,  "  but  those  eyes  in  their 
glass  are  as  the  espejo  ustorio,  the  burning 
mirror.  They  burn,  they  consume  me  here 
like  paper.  Let  us  affix  to  ourselves  thees 
tree.  She  will,  without  doubt,  appear  at 
her  window.  We  shall  salute  her  for  good- 
night." 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ.      233 

"  We  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  I  said 
sharply.  Finding  that  I  was  determined,  he 
permitted  me  to  lead  him  away.  I  was  de- 
lighted to  notice,  however,  that  he  had 
indicated  the  window  which  I  knew  was  the 
minister's  study,  and  that  as  the  bedrooms 
were  in  the  rear  of  the  house,  this  later 
incident  was  probably  not  overseen  by  the 
young  lady  or  the  servant.  But  I  did  not 
part  from  Enriquez  until  I  saw  him  safely 
back  to  the  sala,  where  I  left  him  sipping 
chocolate,  his  arm  alternating  around  the 
waists  of  his  two  previous  partners  in  a  de- 
lightful Arcadian  and  childlike  simplicity, 
and  an  apparent  utter  forgetfulness  of  Miss 
Mannersley. 

The  fandangoes  were  usually  held  on 
Saturday  night,  and  the  next  day,  being 
Sunday,  I  missed  Enriquez ;  but  as  he  was 
a  devout  Catholic  I  remembered  that  he  was 
at  mass  in  the  morning,  and  possibly  at  the 
bull-fight  at  San  Antonio  in  the  afternoon. 
But  I  was  somewhat  surprised  on  the  Mon- 
day morning  following,  as  I  was  crossing 
the  plaza,  to  have  my  arm  taken  by  the 
Rev.  Mr.  Mannersley  in  the  nearest  approach 
to  familiarity  that  was  consistent  with  the 
reserve  of  this  eminent  divine.  I  looked  at 


234      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

him  inquiringly.  Although  scrupulously 
correct  in  attire,  his  features  always  had  a 
singular  resemblance  to  the  national  carica- 
ture known  as  "  Uncle  Sam,"  but  with  the 
humorous  expression  left  out.  Softly  strok- 
ing his  goatee  with  three  fingers,  he  began 
condescendingly:  "You  are,  I  think,  more 
or  less  familiar  with  the  characteristics  and 
customs  of  the  Spanish  as  exhibited  by  the 
settlers  here."  A  thrill  of  apprehension 
went  through  me.  Had  he  heard  of  Enri- 
quez'  proceedings  ?  Had  Miss  Mannersley 
cruelly  betrayed  him  to  her  uncle  ?  "I  have 
not  given  that  attention  myself  to  their  lan- 
guage and  social  peculiarities,"  he  continued, 
with  a  large  wave  of  the  hand,  "  being  much 
occupied  with  a  study  of  their  religious 
beliefs  and  superstitions  "  —  it  struck  me  that 
this  was  apt  to  be  a  common  fault  of  people 
of  the  Mannersley  type  —  "  but  I  have  re- 
frained from  a  personal  discussion  of  them  ; 
on  the  contrary,  I  have  held  somewhat  broad 
views  on  the  subject  of  their  remarkable 
missionary  work,  and  have  suggested  a 
scheme  of  cooperation  with  them,  quite  inde- 
pendent of  doctrinal  teaching,  to  my  brethren 
of  other  Protestant  Christian  sects.  These 
views  I  first  incorporated  in  a  sermon 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ.      235 

last  Sunday  week,  which  I  am  told  has 
created  considerable  attention."  He  stopped 
and  coughed  slightly.  "  I  have  not  yet 
heard  from  any  of  the  Roman  clergy,  but  I 
am  led  to  believe  that  my  remarks  were  not 
ungrateful  to  Catholics  generally." 

I  was  relieved,  although  still  in  some 
wonder  why  he  should  address  me  on  this 
topic.  I  had  a  vague  remembrance  of  hav- 
ing heard  that  he  had  said  something  on 
Sunday  which  had  offended  some  Puritans 
of  his  flock,  but  nothing  more.  He  con- 
tinued :  "  I  have  just  said  that  I  was  unac- 
quainted with  the  characteristics  of  the 
Spanish-American  race.  I  presume,  how- 
ever, they  have  the  impulsiveness  of  their 
Latin  origin.  They  gesticulate  —  eh? 
They  express  their  gratitude,  their  joy,  their 
affection,  their  emotions  generally,  by  spas- 
modic movements?  They  naturally  dance 
—  sing  —  eh  ?  "  A  horrible  suspicion 
crossed  my  mind ;  I  could  only  stare  help- 
lessly at  him.  "  I  see,"  he  said  graciously ; 
"  perhaps  it  is  a  somewhat  general  question. 
I  will  explain  myself.  A  rather  singular 
occurrence  happened  to  me  the  other  night. 
I  had  returned  from  visiting  a  parishioner, 
and  was  alone  in  my  study  reviewing  my 


236      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

sermon  for  the  next  day.  It  must  have 
been  quite  late  before  I  concluded,  for  I 
distinctly  remember  my  niece  had  returned 
with  her  servant  fully  an  hour  before. 
Presently  I  heard  the  sounds  of  a  musical 
instrument  in  the  road,  with  the  accents  of 
some  one  singing  or  rehearsing  some  metrical 
composition  in  words  that,  although  couched 
in  a  language  foreign  to  me,  in  expression 
and  modulation  gave  me  the  impression  of 
being  distinctly  adulatory.  For  some  little 
time,  in  the  greater  preoccupation  of  my 
task,  I  paid  little  attention  to  the  perform- 
ance ;  but  its  persistency  at  length  drew  me 
in  no  mere  idle  curiosity  to  the  window. 
From  thence,  standing  in  my  dressing-gown, 
and  believing  myself  unperceived,  I  noticed 
under  the  large  oak  in  the  roadside  the 
figure  of  a  young  man,  who,  by  the  imper- 
fect light,  appeared  to  be  of  Spanish  extrac- 
tion. But  I  evidently  miscalculated  my  own 
invisibility ;  for  he  moved  rapidly  forward 
as  I  came  to  the  window,  and  in  a  series  of 
the  most  extraordinary  pantomimic  gestures 
saluted  me.  Beyond  my  experience  of  a  few 
Greek  plays  in  earlier  days,  I  confess  I  am 
not  an  adept  in  the  understanding  of  gestic- 
ulation; but  it  struck  me  that  the  various 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.      237 

phases  of  gratitude,  fervor,  reverence,  and 
exaltation  were  successively  portrayed.  He 
placed  his  hands  upon  his  head,  his  heart, 
and  even  clasped  them  together  in  this  man- 
ner." To  my  consternation  the  reverend 
gentleman  here  imitated  Enriquez'  most  ex- 
travagant pantomime.  "  I  am  willing  to  con- 
fess," he  continued,  "that  I  was  singularly 
moved  by  them,  as  well  as  by  the  highly 
creditable  and  Christian  interest  that 
evidently  produced  them.  At  last  I  opened 
the  window.  Leaning  out,  I  told  him  that  I 
regretted  that  the  lateness  of  the  hour  pre- 
vented any  further  response  from  me  than  a 
grateful  though  hurried  acknowledgment  of 
his  praiseworthy  emotion,  but  that  I  should 
be  glad  to  see  him  for  a  few  moments  in  the 
vestry  before  service  the  next  day,  or  at 
early  candle-light,  before  the  meeting  of  the 
Bible  class.  I  told  him  that  as  my  sole  pur- 
pose had  been  the  creation  of  an  evangelical 
brotherhood  and  the  exclusion  of  merely 
doctrinal  views,  nothing  could  be  more 
gratifying  to  me  than  his  spontaneous  and 
unsolicited  testimony  to  my  motives.  He 
appeared  for  an  instant  to  be  deeply  affected, 
and,  indeed,  quite  overcome  with  emotion, 
and  then  gracefully  retired,  with  some  agility 
and  a  slight  saltatory  movement." 


288      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

He  paused.  A  sudden  and  overwhelming 
idea  took  possession  of  me,  and  I  looked  im- 
pulsively into  his  face.  Was  it  possible  that 
for  once  Enriquez'  ironical  extravagance  had 
been  understood,  met,  and  vanquished  by  a 
master  hand  ?  But  the  Rev.  Mr.  Manners- 
ley's  self-satisfied  face  betrayed  no  ambiguity 
or  lurking  humor.  He  was  evidently  in 
earnest ;  he  had  complacently  accepted  for 
himself  the  abandoned  Enriquez'  serenade 
to  his  niece.  I  felt  an  hysterical  desire  to 
laugh,  but  it  was  checked  by  my  compan- 
ion's next  words. 

"  I  informed  my  niece  of  the  occurrence 
in  the  morning  at  breakfast.  She  had  not 
heard  anything  of  the  strange  performance, 
but  she  agreed  with  me  as  to  its  undoubted 
origin  in  a  grateful  recognition  of  my  liberal 
efforts  toward  his  co-religionists.  It  was 
she,  in  fact,  who  suggested  that  your  know- 
ledge of  these  people  might  corroborate  my 
impressions." 

I  was  dumfounded.  Had  Miss  Manners- 
ley,  who  must  have  recognized  Enriquez' 
hand  in  this,  concealed  the  fact  in  a  desire 
to  shield  him  ?  But  this  was  so  inconsistent 
with  her  utter  indifference  to  him,  except  as 
a  grotesque  study,  that  she  would  have  been 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUJEZ.      239 

more  likely  to  tell  her  uncle  all  about  his 
previous  performance.  Nor  could  it  be  that 
she  wished  to  conceal  her  visit  to  the  fan- 
dango. She  was  far  too  independent  for 
that,  and  it  was  even  possible  that  the  rev- 
erend gentleman,  in  his  desire  to  know  more 
of  Enriquez'  compatriots,  would  not  have 
objected.  In  my  confusion  I  meekly  added 
my  conviction  to  hers,  congratulated  him 
upon  his  evident  success,  and  slipped  away. 
But  I  was  burning  with  a  desire  to  see 
Enriquez  and  know  all.  He  was  imagina- 
tive but  not  untruthful.  Unfortunately,  I 
learned  that  he  was  just  then  following  one 
of  his  erratic  impulses,  and  had  gone  to  a 
rodeo  at  his  cousin's,  in  the  foothills,  where 
he  was  alternately  exercising  his  horseman- 
ship in  catching  and  breaking  wild  cattle, 
and  delighting  his  relatives  with  his  incom- 
parable grasp  of  the  American  language 
and  customs,  and  of  the  airs  of  a  young  man 
of  fashion.  Then  my  thoughts  recurred  to 
Miss  Mannersley.  Had  she  really  been  ob- 
livious that  night  to  Enriquez'  serenade  ?  I 
resolved  to  find  out,  if  I  could,  without  be- 
traying  Enriquez.  Indeed,  it  was  possible; 
after  all,  that  it  might  not  have  been  he. 
Chance  favored  me.  The  next  evening  I 


240      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

was  at  a  party  where  Miss  Mannersley,  by 
reason  of  her  position  and  quality,  was  a  dis- 
tinguished —  I  had  almost  written  a  popu- 
lar —  guest.  But,  as  I  have  formerly  stated, 
although  the  youthful  fair  of  the  Encinal 
were  flattered  by  her  casual  attentions,  and 
secretly  admired  her  superior  style  and  aris- 
tocratic calm,  they  were  more  or  less  uneasy 
under  the  dominance  of  her  intelligence  and 
education,  and  were  afraid  to  attempt  either 
confidence  or  familiarity.  They  were  also 
singularly  jealous  of  her,  for  although  the 
average  young  man  was  equally  afraid  of 
her  cleverness  and  candor,  he  was  not  above 
paying  a  tremulous  and  timid  court  to  her 
for  its  effect  upon  her  humbler  sisters.  This 
evening  she  was  surrounded  by  her  usual 
satellites,  including,  of  course,  the  local  not- 
ables and  special  guests  of  distinction.  She 
had  been  discussing,  I  think,  the  existence 
of  glaciers  on  Mount  Shasta  with  a  specta- 
cled geologist,  and  had  participated  with 
charming  frankness  in  a  conversation  on 
anatomy  with  the  local  doctor  and  a  learned 
professor,  when  she  was  asked  to  take  a  seat 
at  the  piano.  She  played  with  remarkable 
skill  and  wonderful  precision,  but  coldly  and 
'  brilliantly.  As  she  sat  there  in  her  subdued 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.     241 

but  perfectly  fitting  evening  dress,  her  regu- 
lar profile  and  short  but  slender  neck  firmly 
set  upon  her  high  shoulders,  exhaling  an 
atmosphere  of  refined  puritanism  and  pro- 
vocative intelligence,  the  utter  incongruity 
of  Enriquez'  extravagant  attentions,  if  ironi- 
cal, and  their  equal  hopelessness  if  not, 
seemed  to  me  plainer  than  ever.  What  had 
this  well-poised,  coldly  observant  spinster  to 
do  with  that  quaintly  ironic  ruffler,  that  ro- 
mantic cynic,  that  rowdy  Don  Quixote,  that 
impossible  Enriquez  ?  Presently  she  ceased 
playing.  Her  slim,  narrow  slipper,  reveal- 
ing her  thin  ankle,  remained  upon  the  pedal ; 
her  delicate  fingers  were  resting  idly  on  the 
keys ;  her  head  was  slightly  thrown  back, 
and  her  narrow  eyebrows  prettily  knit  to- 
ward the  ceiling  in  an  effort  of  memory. 

"  Something  of  Chopin's,"  suggested  the 
geologist,  ardently. 

"  That  exquisite  sonata  !  "  pleaded  the 
doctor. 

"  Suthin'  of  Rubinstein.  Heard  him 
once,"  said  a  gentleman  of  Siskiyou.  "  He 
just  made  that  pianner  get  up  and  howl. 
Play  Rube." 

She  shook  her  head  with  parted  lips  and 
a  slight  touch  of  girlish  coquetry  in  her 


242      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

manner.  Then  her  fingers  suddenly  dropped 
upon  the  keys  with  a  glassy  tinkle;  there 
were  a  few  quick  pizzicato  chords,  down 
went  the  low  pedal  with  a  monotonous 
strumming,  and  she  presently  began  to  hum 
to  herself.  I  started,  —  as  well  I  might,  — 
for  I  recognized  one  of  Enriquez'  favorite 
and  most  extravagant  guitar  solos.  It  was 
audacious  ;  it  was  barbaric  ;  it  was,  I  fear, 
vulgar.  As  I  remembered  it,  —  as  he  sang 
it,  —  it  recounted  the  adventures  of  one 
Don  Francisco,  a  provincial  gallant  and  roy- 
sterer  of  the  most  objectionable  type.  It 
had  one  hundred  and  four  verses,  which 
Enriquez  never  spared  me.  I  shuddered  as 
in  a  pleasant,  quiet  voice  the  correct  Miss 
Mannersley  warbled  in  musical  praise  of 
the  pellejo,  or  wine-skin,  and  a  eulogy  of  the 
dice-box  came  caressingly  from  her  thin 
red  lips.  But  the  company  was  far  differ- 
ently affected:  the  strange,  wild  air  and 
wilder  accompaniment  were  evidently  catch- 
ing ;  people  moved  towards  the  piano ;  some- 
body whistled  the  air  from  a  distant  corner ; 
even  the  faces  of  the  geologist  and  doctor 
brightened. 

"  A  tarantella,  I  presume  ?  "  blandly  sug- 
gested the  doctor. 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ.     243 

Miss  Mannersley  stopped,  and  rose  care- 
lessly from  the  piano.  "  It  is  a  Moorish 
gypsy  song  of  the  fifteenth  century,"  she  said 
dryly. 

"  It  seemed  sorter  familiar,  too,"  hesitated 
one  of  the  young  men,  timidly,  "  like  as  if 
—  don't  you  know  ?  —  you  had  without 
knowing  it,  don't  you  know  ?  "  —  he  blushed 
slightly  —  "  sorter  picked  it  up  somewhere." 

"  I  '  picked  it  up,'  as  you  call  it,  in  the 
collection  of  mediaeval  manuscripts  of  the 
Harvard  Library,  and  copied  it,"  returned 
Miss  Mannersley,  coldly,  as  she  turned 
away. 

But  I  was  not  inclined  to  let  her  off  so 
easily.  I  presently  made  my  way  to  her 
side.  "  Your  uncle  was  complimentary 
enough  to  consult  me  as  to  the  meaning  of 
the  appearance  of  a  certain  exuberant  Span- 
ish visitor  at  his  house  the  other  night."  I 
looked  into  her  brown  eyes,  but  my  own 
slipped  off  her  velvety  pupils  without  retain- 
ing anything.  Then  she  reinforced  her  gaze 
with  a  pince-nez,  and  said  carelessly : 

"Oh,  it's  you?  How  are  you?  Well, 
could  you  give  him  any  information  ?  " 

"  Only  generally,"  I  returned,  still  looking 
into  her  eyes.  "  These  people  are  impul- 


244      THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

sive.  The  Spanish  blood  is  a  mixture  of 
gold  and  quicksilver." 

She  smiled  slightly.  "  That  reminds  me  of 
your  volatile  friend.  He  was  mercurial 
enough,  certainly.  Is  he  still  dancing  ?  " 

"And  singing  sometimes,"  I  responded 
pointedly.  But  she  only  added  casually, 
"  A  singular  creature,"  without  exhibiting 
the  least  consciousness,  and  drifted  away, 
leaving  me  none  the  wiser.  I  felt  that  En- 
riquez  alone  could  enlighten  me.  I  must 
see  him. 

I  did,  but  not  in  the  way  I  expected. 
There  was  a  bull-fight  at  San  Antonio  the 
next  Saturday  afternoon,  the  usual  Sunday 
performance  being  changed  in  deference  to 
the  Sabbatical  habits  of  the  Americans. 
An  additional  attraction  was  offered  in  the 
shape  of  a  bull  and  bear  fight,  also  a  con- 
cession to  American  taste,  which  had  voted 
the  bull-fight  "  slow,"  and  had  averred  that 
the  bull  "  did  not  get  a  fair  show."  I  am 
glad  that  I  am  able  to  spare  the  reader 
the  usual  realistic  horrors,  for  in  the  Cali- 
fornian  performances  there  was  very  little 
of  the  brutality  that  distinguished  this  func- 
tion in  the  mother  country.  The  horses 
were  not  miserable,  worn-out  hacks,  but 


THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENRIQUEZ.     245 

young  and  alert  mustangs ;  and  the  display 
of  horsemanship  by  the  picadors  was  not 
only  wonderful,  but  secured  an  almost  abso- 
lute safety  to  horse  and  rider.  I  never  saw 
a  horse  gored ;  although  unskillful  riders 
were  sometimes  thrown  in  wheeling  quickly 
to  avoid  the  bull's  charge,  they  generally 
regained  their  animals  without  injury. 

The  Plaza  de  Toros  was  reached  through 
the  decayed  and  tile-strewn  outskirts  of  an 
old  Spanish  village.  It  was  a  rudely  built, 
oval  amphitheatre,  with  crumbling,  white- 
washed adobe  walls,  and  roofed  only  over 
portions  of  the  gallery  reserved  for  the  pro- 
vincial "  notables,"  but  now  occupied  by  a 
few  shopkeepers  and  their  wives,  with  a 
sprinkling  of  American  travelers  and  ranch- 
men. The  impalpable  adobe-dust  of  the 
arena  was  being  whirled  into  the  air  by  the 
strong  onset  of  the  afternoon  trade-winds, 
which  happily,  however,  helped  also  to  dissi- 
pate a  reek  of  garlic,  and  the  acrid  fumes  of 
cheap  tobacco  rolled  in  corn-husk  cigarettes. 
I  was  leaning  over  the  second  barrier,  wait- 
ing for  the  meagre  and  circus-like  procession 
to  enter  with  the  keys  of  the  bull-pen,  when 
my  attention  was  attracted  to  a  movement 
in  the  reserved  gallery.  A  lady  and  gen- 


246      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

tleman  of  a  quality  that  was  evidently  unfa- 
miliar to  the  rest  of  the  audience  were  pick- 
ing their  way  along  the  rickety  benches  to  a 
front  seat.  I  recognized  the  geologist  with 
some  surprise,  and  the  lady  he  was  leading 
with  still  greater  astonishment.  For  it  was 
Miss  Mannersley,  in  her  precise,  well-fitting 
walking  costume  —  a  monotone  of  sober 
color  among  the  parti-colored  audience. 

However,  I  was  perhaps  less  surprised 
than  the  audience,  for  I  was  not  only  be- 
coming as  accustomed  to  the  young  girl's 
vagaries  as  I  had  been  to  Enriquez'  extrava- 
gance, but  I  was  also  satisfied  that  her  uncle 
might  have  given  her  permission  to  come, 
as  a  recognition  of  the  Sunday  concession  of 
the  management,  as  well  as  to  conciliate  his 
supposed  Catholic  friends.  I  watched  her 
sitting  there  until  the  first  bull  had  entered, 
and,  after  a  rather  brief  play  with  the  pica- 
dors and  banderilleros,  was  dispatched.  At 
the  moment  when  the  matador  approached 
the  bull  with  his  lethal  weapon  I  was  not 
sorry  for  an  excuse  to  glance  at  Miss  Man- 
nersley. Her  hands  were  in  her  lap,  her 
head  slightly  bent  forward  over  her  knees. 
I  fancied  that  she,  too,  had  dropped  her 
eyes  before  the  brutal  situation;  to  my 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENKIQUEZ.      247 

horror  I  saw  that  she  had  a  drawing-book  in 
her  hand,  and  was  actually  sketching  it.  I 
turned  my  eyes  in  preference  to  the  dying 
bull. 

The  second  animal  led  out  for  this  ingen- 
ious slaughter  was,  however,  more  sullen, 
uncertain,  and  discomposing  to  his  butchers. 
He  accepted  the  irony  of  a  trial  with  gloomy, 
suspicious  eyes,  and  he  declined  the  chal- 
lenge of  whirling  and  insulting  picadors. 
He  bristled  with  banderillas  like  a  hedgehog, 
but  remained  with  his  haunches  backed 
against  the  barrier,  at  times  almost  hidden 
in  the  fine  dust  raised  by  the  monotonous 
stroke  of  his  sullenly  pawing  hoof  —  his  one 
dull,  heavy  protest.  A  vague  uneasiness 
had  infected  his  adversaries ;  the  picadors 
held  aloof,  the  banderilleros  skirmished  at  a 
safe  distance.  The  audience  resented  only 
the  indecision  of  the  bull.  Galling  epithets 
were  flung  at  him,  followed  by  cries  of  "  Es- 
pada ! "  and,  curving  his  elbow  under  his 
short  cloak,  the  matador,  with  his  flashing 
blade  in  hand,  advanced  and  —  stopped. 
The  bull  remained  motionless. 

For  at  that  moment  a  heavier  gust  of  wind 
than  usual  swept  down  upon  the  arena,  lifted 
a  suffocating  cloud  of  dust,  and  whirled  it 


248      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENBIQUEZ. 

around  the  tiers  of  benches  and  the  balcony, 
and  for  a  moment  seemed  to  stop  the  perform- 
ance. I  heard  an  exclamation  from  the  geolo- 
gist, who  had  risen  to  his  feet.  I  fancied  I 
heard  even  a  faint  cry  from  Miss  Mannersley ; 
but  the  next  moment,  as  the  dust  was  slowly 
settling,  we  saw  a  sheet  of  paper  in  the  air, 
that  had  been  caught  up  in  this  brief  cyclone, 
dropping,  dipping  from  side  to  side  on  un- 
certain wings,  until  it  slowly  descended  in 
the  very  middle  of  the  arena.  It  was  a  leaf 
from  Miss  Mannersley's  sketch-book,  the 
one  on  which  she  had  been  sketching. 

In  the  pause  that  followed  it  seemed  to  be 
the  one  object  that  at  last  excited  the  bull's 
growing  but  tardy  ire.  He  glanced  at  it 
with  murky,  distended  eyes ;  he  snorted  at 
it  with  vague  yet  troubled  fury.  Whether 
he  detected  his  own  presentment  in  Miss 
Mannersley's  sketch,  or  whether  he  recog- 
nized it  as  an  unknown  and  unfamiliar 
treachery  in  his  surroundings,  I  could  not 
conjecture  ;  for  the  next  moment  the  matador, 
taking  advantage  of  the  bull's  concentration, 
with  a  complacent  leer  at  the  audience,  ad- 
vanced toward  the  paper.  But  at  that 
instant  a  young  man  cleared  the  barrier  into 
the  arena  with  a  single  bound,  shoved  the 


THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENRIQUEZ.      249 

matador  to  one  side,  caught  up  the  paper, 
turned  toward  the  balcony  and  Miss  Man- 
nersley  with  a  gesture  of  apology,  dropped 
gaily  before  the  bull,  knelt  down  before  him 
with  an  exaggerated  humility,  and  held  up 
the  drawing  as  if  for  his  inspection.  A  roar 
of  applause  broke  from  the  audience,  a  cry  of 
warning  and  exasperation  from  the  atten- 
dants, as  the  goaded  bull  suddenly  charged 
the  stranger.  But  he  sprang  to  one  side 
with  great  dexterity,  made  a  courteous  ges- 
ture to  the  matador  as  if  passing  the  bull 
over  to  him,  and  still  holding  the  paper  in  his 
hand,  re-leaped  the  barrier,  and  rejoined  the 
audience  in  safety.  I  did  not  wait  to  see 
the  deadly,  dominant  thrust  with  which  the 
matador  received  the  charging  bull ;  my  eyes 
were  following  the  figure  now  bounding  up 
the  steps  to  the  balcony,  where  with  an  ex- 
aggerated salutation  he  laid  the  drawing  in 
Miss  Mannersley's  lap  and  vanished.  There 
was  no  mistaking  that  thin  lithe  form,  the 
narrow  black  mustache,  and  gravely  dancing 
eyes.  The  audacity  of  conception,  the  extrav- 
agance of  execution,  the  quaint  irony  of 
the  sequel,  could  belong  to  no  one  but 
Enriquez. 

I  hurried  up  to  her  as  the  six  yoked  mules 


250      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

dragged  the  carcass  of  the  bull  away.  She 
was  placidly  putting  up  her  book,  the  un- 
moved focus  of  a  hundred  eager  and  curious 
eyes.  She  smiled  slightly  as  she  saw  me. 
"  I  was  just  telling  Mr.  Briggs  what  an 
extraordinary  creature  it  was,  and  how  you 
knew  him.  He  must  have  had  great  experi- 
ence to  do  that  sort  of  thing  so  cleverly  and 
safely.  Does  he  do  it  often?  Of  course, 
not  just  that.  But  does  he  pick  up  cigars 
and  things  that  I  see  they  throw  to  the 
matador  ?  Does  he  belong  to  the  manage- 
ment ?  Mr.  Briggs  thinks  the  whole  thing 
was  a  feint  to  distract  the  bull,"  she  added, 
with  a  wicked  glance  at  the  geologist,  who, 
I  fancied,  looked  disturbed. 

"  I  am  afraid,"  I  said  dryly,  "  that  his  act 
was  as  unpremeditated  and  genuine  as  it  was 
unusual." 

"Why  afraid?" 

It  was  a  matter-of-fact  question,  but  I 
instantly  saw  my  mistake.  What  right  had 
I  to  assume  that  Enriquez'  attentions  were 
any  more  genuine  than  her  own  easy  indiffer- 
ence ;  and  if  I  suspected  that  they  were,  was 
it  fair  in  me  to  give  my  friend  away  to  this 
heartless  coquette  ?  "  You  are  not  very 
gallant,"  she  said,  with  a  slight  laugh,  as  I 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.      251 

was  hesitating,  and  turned  away  with  her 
escort  before  I  could  frame  a  reply.  But 
at  least  Enriquez  was  now  accessible,  and 
I  should  gain  some  information  from  him. 
I  knew  where  to  find  him,  unless  he  were 
still  lounging  about  the  building,  intent  upon 
more  extravagance ;  but  I  waited  until  I 
saw  Miss  Mannersley  and  Briggs  depart 
without  further  interruption. 

The  hacienda  of  Ramon  Saltillo,  Enriquez' 
cousin,  was  on  the  outskirts  of  the  village. 
When  I  arrived  there  I  found  Enriquez' 
pinto  mustang  steaming  in  the  corral,  and 
although  I  was  momentarily  delayed  by  the 
servants  at  the  gateway,  I  was  surprised  to 
find  Enriquez  himself  lying  languidly  on 
his  back  in  a  hammock  in  the  patio.  His 
arms  were  hanging  down  listlessly  on  each 
side  as  if  in  the  greatest  prostration,  yet  I 
could  not  resist  the  impression  that  the  ras- 
cal had  only  just  got  into  the  hammock 
when  he  heard  of  my  arrival. 

"  You  have  arrived,  friend  Pancho,  in 
time,"  he  said,  in  accents  of  exaggerated 
weakness.  "  I  am  absolutely  exhaust.  I 
am  bursted,  caved  in,  kerflummoxed.  I 
have  behold  you,  my  friend,  at  the  barrier. 
I  speak  not,  I  make  no  sign  at  the  first, 


252      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

because  I  was  on  fire  ;  I  speak  not  at  the 
feenish  —  for  I  am  exhaust." 

"  I  see  ;  the  bull  made  it  lively  for  you." 

He  instantly  bounded  up  in  the  hammock. 
"The  bull!  Caramba !  Not  a  thousand 
bulls !  And  thees  one,  look  you,  was  a 
craven.  I  snap  my  fingers  over  his  horn ;  I 
roll  my  cigarette  under  his  nose." 

"  Well,  then  —  what  was  it  ?  " 

He  instantly  lay  down  again,  pulling  up 
the  sides  of  the  hammock.  Presently  his 
voice  came  from  its  depths,  appealing  in 
hollow  tones  to  the  sky.  "  He  asks  me  — 
thees  friend  of  my  soul,  thees  brother  of  my 
life,  thees  Pancho  that  I  lofe  —  what  it  was  ? 
He  would  that  I  should  tell  him  why  I  am 
game  in  the  legs,  why  I  shake  in  the  hand, 
crack  in  the  voice,  and  am  generally  wipe 
out !  And  yet  he,  my  pardner  —  thees 
Francisco  —  know  that  I  have  seen  the 
mees  from  Boston  !  That  I  have  gaze  into 
the  eye,  touch  the  hand,  and  for  the  instant 
possess  the  picture  that  hand  have  drawn  ! 
It  was  a  sublime  picture,  Pancho,"  he  said, 
sitting  up  again  suddenly,  "and  have  kill 
the  bull  before  our  friend  Pepe's  sword 
have  touch  even  the  bone  of  hees  back  and 
make  feenish  of  him." 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.     253 

"  Look  here,  Enriquez,"  I  said  bluntly, 
"  have  you  been  serenading  that  girl  ?  " 

He  shrugged  his  shoulders  without  the 
least  embarrassment,  and  said :  "  Ah,  yes. 
What  would  you  ?  It  is  of  a  necessity." 

"  Well,"  I  retorted,  "  then  you  ought  to 
know  that  her  uncle  took  it  all  to  himself  — 
thought  you  some  grateful  Catholic  pleased 
with  his  religious  tolerance." 

He  did  not  even  smile.  "  Bueno,"  he  said 
gravely.  "  That  make  something,  too.  In 
thees  affair  it  is  well  to  begin  with  the 
duenna.  He  is  the  duenna." 

"And,"  I  went  on  relentlessly,  "her 
escort  told  her  just  now  that  your  exploit  in 
the  bull-ring  was  only  a  trick  to  divert  the 
bull,  suggested  by  the  management." 

"  Bah !  her  escort  is  a  geologian.  Natu- 
rally, she  is  to  him  as  a  stone." 

I  would  have  continued,  but  a  peon  inter- 
rupted us  at  this  moment  with  a  sign  to 
Enriquez,  who  leaped  briskly  from  the  ham- 
mock, bidding  me  wait  his  return  from  a 
messenger  in  the  gateway. 

Still  unsatisfied  of  mind  I  waited,  and  sat 
down  in  the  hammock  that  Enriquez  had 
quitted.  A  scrap  of  paper  was  lying  in  its 
meshes,  which  at  first  appeared  to  be  of  the 


254      THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

kind  from  which  Enriquez  rolled  his  cigar- 
ettes ;  but  as  I  picked  it  up  to  throw  it  away, 
I  found  it  was  of  much  firmer  and  stouter 
material.  Looking  at  it  more  closely,  I  was 
surprised  to  recognize  it  as  a  piece  of  the 
tinted  drawing-paper  torn  off  the  "  block  " 
that  Miss  Mannersley  had  used.  It  had 
been  deeply  creased  at  right  angles  as  if  it 
had  been  folded;  it  looked  as  if  it  might 
have  been  the  outer  half  of  a  sheet  used  for 
a  note. 

It  might  have  been  a  trifling  circumstance, 
but  it  greatly  excited  my  curiosity.  I  knew 
that  he  had  returned  the  sketch  to  Miss 
Mannersley,  for  I  had  seen  it  in  her  hand. 
Had  she  given  him  another?  And  if  so, 
why  had  it  been  folded  to  the  destruction  of 
the  drawing?  Or  was  it  part  of  a  note 
which  he  had  destroyed?  In  the  first  im- 
pulse of  discovery  I  walked  quickly  with  it 
toward  the  gateway  where  Enriquez  had  dis- 
appeared, intending  to  restore  it  to  him. 
He  was  just  outside  talking  with  a  young 
girl.  I  started,  for  it  was  Jocasta  —  Miss 
Mannersley's  maid. 

With  this  added  discovery  came  that 
sense  of  uneasiness  and  indignation  with 
which  we  illogically  are  apt  to  resent  the 


THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENRIQUEZ.      255 

withholding  of  a  friend's  confidence,  even  in 
matters  concerning  only  himself.  It  was  no 
use  for  me  to  reason  that  it  was  no  business 
of  mine,  that  he  was  right  in  keeping  a 
secret  that  concerned  another  —  and  a  lady  ; 
but  I  was  afraid  I  was  even  more  meanly 
resentful  because  the  discovery  quite  upset 
my  theory  of  his  conduct  and  of  Miss  Man- 
nersley's  attitude  toward  him.  I  continued 
to  walk  on  to  the  gateway,  where  I  bade 
Enriquez  a  hurried  good-by,  alleging  the 
sudden  remembrance  of  another  engagement, 
but  without  appearing  to  recognize  the  girl, 
who  was  moving  away,  when,  to  my  further 
discomfiture,  the  rascal  stopped  me  with  an 
appealing  wink,  threw  his  arms  around  my 
neck,  whispered  hoarsely  in  my  ear,  "  Ah ! 
you  see  —  you  comprehend  —  but  you  are 
the  mirror  of  discretion !  "  and  returned  to 
Jocasta.  But  whether  this  meant  that  he 
had  received  a  message  from  Miss  Man- 
ner sley,  or  that  he  was  trying  to  suborn  her 
maid  to  carry  one,  was  still  uncertain.  He 
was  capable  of  either. 

During  the  next  two  or  three  weeks  I  saw 

him  frequently ;  but  as  I  had  resolved  to  try 

the  effect  of  ignoring  Miss  Mannersley  in 

our  conversation,  I  gathered  little  further  of 

Bret  Harte  9-V.  6 


256      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ. 

fcheir  relations,  and,  to  my  surprise,  after 
one  or  two  characteristic  extravagances  of 
allusion,  Enriquez  dropped  the  subject,  too. 
Only  one  afternoon,  as  we  were  parting,  he 
said  carelessly :  "  My  friend,  you  are  going 
to  the  casa  of  Mannersley  to-night.  I  too 
have  the  honor  of  the  invitation.  But  you 
will  be  my  Mercury  —  my  Leporello  —  you 
will  take  of  me  a  message  to  thees  Mees 
Boston,  that  I  am  crushed,  desolated,  pros- 
trate, and  flabbergasted  — that  I  cannot 
arrive,  for  I  have  of  that  night  to  sit  up 
with  the  grandaunt  of  my  brother-in-law, 
who  has  a  quinsy  to  the  death.  It  is  sad." 

This  was  the  first  indication  I  had  re- 
ceived of  Miss  Mannersley's  advances.  I 
was  equally  surprised  at  Enriquez'  refusal. 

"  Nonsense !  "  I  said  bluntly.  "  Nothing 
keeps  you  from  going." 

"  My  friend,"  returned  Enriquez,  with  a 
sudden  lapse  into  languislunent  that  seemed 
to  make  him  absolutely  infirm  ;  "  it  is  every- 
thing that  shall  restrain  me.  I  am  not 
strong.  I  shall  become  weak  of  the  knee 
and  tremble  under  the  eye  of  Mees  Boston. 
I  shall  precipitate  myself  to  the  geologian 
by  the  throat.  Ask  me  another  conundrum 
that  shall  be  easy." 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENBIQUEZ.      257 

He  seemed  idiotically  inflexible,  and  did 
not  go.  But  I  did.  I  found  Miss  Manners- 
ley  exquisitely  dressed  and  looking  singularly 
animated  and  pretty.  The  lambent  glow  of 
her  inscrutable  eye  as  she  turned  towards 
me  might  have  been  flattering  but  for  my 
uneasiness  in  regard  to  Enriquez.  I  de- 
livered his  excuses  as  naturally  as  I  could. 
She  stiffened  for  an  instant,  and  seemed  an 
inch  higher.  "  I  am  so  sorry,"  she  said  at 
last  in  a  level  voice.  "  I  thought  he  would 
have  been  so  amusing.  Indeed,  I  had  hoped 
we  might  try  an  old  Moorish  dance  together 
which  I  have  found  and  was  practising." 

"  He  would  have  been  delighted,  I  know. 
It 's  a  great  pity  he  did  n't  come  with  me," 
I  said  quickly ;  "  but,"  I  could  not  help 
adding,  with  emphasis  on  her  words,  "  he  is 
such  an  '  extraordinary  creature,'  you  know." 

"  I  see  nothing  extraordinary  in  his  devo- 
tion to  an  aged  relative,"  returned  Miss 
Mannersley,  quietly,  as  she  turned  away, 
"  except  that  it  justifies  my  respect  for  his 
character." 

I  do  not  know  why  I  did  not  relate  this 
to  him.  Possibly  I  had  given  up  trying  to 
understand  them ;  perhaps  I  was  beginning 
to  have  an  idea  that  he  could  take  care  of 


258      THE  DEVOTION   OF  ENRIQUEZ. 

himself.  But  I  was  somewhat  surprised  a 
few  days  later  when,  after  asking  me  to  go 
with  him  to  a  rodeo  at  his  uncle's  he  added 
composedly,  "  You  will  meet  Mees  Boston." 

I  stared,  and  but  for  his  manner  would 
have  thought  it  part  of  his  extravagance. 
For  the  rodeo  —  a  yearly  chase  of  wild  cat- 
tle for  the  purpose  of  lassoing  and  brand- 
ing them  —  was  a  rather  brutal  affair,  and 
purely  a  man's  function ;  it  was  also  a 
family  affair  —  a  property  stock-taking  of 
the  great  Spanish  cattle-owners  —  and  stran- 
gers, particularly  Americans,  found  it  diffi- 
cult to  gain  access  to  its  mysteries  and  the 
festa  that  followed. 

"  But  how  did  she  get  an  invitation  ?  "  I 
asked.  "  You  did  not  dare  to  ask "  —  I 


"  My  friend,"  said  Enriquez,  with  a  sin- 
gular deliberation,  "  the  great  and  respect- 
able Boston  herself,  and  her  serene,  vener- 
able oncle,  and  other  Boston  magnificoes, 
have  of  a  truth  done  me  the  inexpressible 
honor  to  solicit  of  my  degraded,  papistical 
oncle  that  she  shall  come  —  that  she  shall 
of  her  own  superior  eye  behold  the  barbaric 
customs  of  our  race." 

His  tone  and  manner  were  so   peculiar 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.     259 

that  I  stepped  quickly  before  him,  laid  my 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  looked  down 
into  his  face.  But  the  actual  devil  which  I 
now  for  the  first  time  saw  in  his  eyes  went 
out  of  them  suddenly,  and  he  relapsed  again 
in  affected  languishment  in  his  chair.  "I 
shall  be  there,  friend  Pancho,"  he  said,  with 
a  preposterous  gasp.  "  I  shall  nerve  my  arm 
to  lasso  the  bull,  and  tumble  him  before  her 
at  her  feet.  I  shall  throw  the  '  buck-jump  ' 
mustang  at  the  same  sacred  spot.  I  shall 
pluck  for  her  the  buried  chicken  at  full 
speed  from  the  ground,  and  present  it  to 
her.  You  shall  see  it,  friend  Pancho.  I 
shall  be  there." 

He  was  as  good  as  his  word.  When  Don 
Pedro  Amador,  his  uncle,  installed  Miss 
Mannersley,  with  Spanish  courtesy,  on  a 
raised  platform  in  the  long  valley  where  the 
rodeo  took  place,  the  gallant  Enriquez  se- 
lected a  bull  from  the  frightened  and  gallop- 
ing herd,  and,  cleverly  isolating  him  from 
the  band,  lassoed  his  hind  legs,  and  threw 
him  exactly  before  the  platform  where  Miss 
Mannersley  was  seated.  It  was  Enriquez 
who  caught  the  unbroken  mustang,  sprang 
from  his  own  saddle  to  the  bare  back  of  his 
captive,  and  with  only  the  lasso  for  a  bridle, 


260      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENKIQUEZ. 

halted  him  on  rigid  haunches  at  Miss  Man- 
nersley's  feet.  It  was  Enriquez  who,  in  the 
sports  that  followed,  leaned  from  his  saddle 
at  full  speed,  caught  up  the  chicken  buried 
to  its  head  in  the  sand  without  wringing  its 
neck,  and  tossed  it  unharmed  and  fluttering 
toward  his  mistress.  As  for  her,  she  wore 
the  same  look  of  animation  that  I  had  seen 
in  her  face  at  our  previous  meeting.  Al- 
though she  did  not  bring  her  sketch-book 
with  her,  as  at  the  bull-fight,  she  did  not 
shrink  from  the  branding  of  the  cattle, 
which  took  place  under  her  very  eyes. 

Yet  I  had  never  seen  her  and  Enriquez 
together;  they  had  never,  to  my  actual 
knowledge,  even  exchanged  words.  And 
now,  although  she  was  the  guest  of  his 
ancle,  his  duties  seemed  to  keep  him  in  the 
field,  and  apart  from  her.  Nor,  as  far  as  I 
could  detect,  did  either  apparently  make 
any  effort  to  have  it  otherwise.  The  pecul- 
iar circumstance  seemed  to  attract  no  atten- 
tion from  any  one  else.  But  for  what  I 
alone  knew  —  or  thought  I  knew  —  of  their 
actual  relations,  I  should  have  thought  them 
strangers. 

But  I  felt  certain  that  the  festa  which 
took  place  in  the  broad  patio  of  Don  Pedro's 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.      261 

casa  would  bring  them  together.  And  later 
in  the  evening,  as  we  were  all  sitting  on 
the  veranda  watching  the  dancing  of  the 
Mexican  women,  whose  white-flounced  sayas 
were  monotonously  rising  and  falling  to  the 
strains  of  two  melancholy  harps,  Miss  Man- 
nersley  rejoined  us  from  the  house.  She 
seemed  to  be  utterly  absorbed  and  abstracted 
in  the  barbaric  dances,  and  scarcely  moved 
as  she  leaned  over  the  railing  with  her  cheek 
resting  on  her  hand.  Suddenly  she  arose 
with  a  little  cry. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  two  or  three. 

"  Nothing  —  only  I  have  lost  my  fan." 
She  had  risen,  and  was  looking  abstractedly 
on  the  floor. 

Half  a  dozen  men  jumped  to  their  feet. 
"  Let  me  fetch  it,"  they  said. 

"  No,  thank  you.  I  think  I  know  where 
it  is,  and  will  go  for  it  myself."  She  was 
moving  away. 

But  Don  Pedro  interposed  with  Spanish 
gravity.  Such  a  thing  was  not  to  be  heard 
of  in  his  casa.  If  the  senorita  would  not 
permit  him  —  an  old  man  —  to  go  for  it, 
it  must  be  brought  by  Enriquez,  her  cava- 
lier of  the  day. 

But  Enriquez  was  not  to  be  found.     I 


262      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENEIQUEZ, 

glanced  at  Miss  Mannersley's  somewhat  dis- 
turbed face,  and  begged  her  to  let  me  fetch 
it.  I  thought  I  saw  a  flush  of  relief  come 
into  her  pale  cheek  as  she  said,  in  a  lower 
voice,  "  On  the  stone  seat  in  the  garden." 

I  hurried  away,  leaving  Don  Pedro  still 
protesting.  I  knew  the  gardens,  and  the 
stone  seat  at  an  angle  of  the  wall,  not  a 
dozen  yards  from  the  casa.  The  moon  shone 
full  upon  it.  There,  indeed,  lay  the  little 
gray-feathered  fan.  But  close  beside  it,  also, 
lay  the  crumpled,  black,  gold-embroidered 
riding  gauntlet  that  Enriquez  had  worn  at 
the  rodeo. 

I  thrust  it  hurriedly  into  my  pocket,  and 
ran  back.  As  I  passed  through  the  gate- 
way I  asked  a  peon  to  send  Enriquez  to  me. 
The  man  stared.  Did  I  not  know  that  Don 
Enriquez  had  ridden  away  two  minutes  ago  ? 

When  I  reached  the  veranda,  I  handed 
the  fan  to  Miss  Mannersley  without  a  word. 
"  Bueno,"*  said  Don  Pedro,  gravely ;  "  it  is 
as  well.  There  shall  be  no  bones  broken 
over  the  getting  of  it,  for  Enriquez,  I  hear, 
has  had  to  return  to  the  Encinal  this  very 
evening." 

Miss  Mannersley  retired  early.  I  did  not 
inform  her  of  my  discovery,  nor  did  I  seek 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENRIQUEZ.     263 

in  any  way  to  penetrate  her  secret.  There 
was  no  doubt  that  she  and  Enriquez  had 
been  together,  perhaps  not  for  the  first  time ; 
but  what  was  the  result  of  their  interview? 
From  the  young  girl's  demeanor  and  En- 
riquez' hurried  departure,  I  could  only  fear 
the  worst  for  him.  Had  he  been  tempted 
into  some  further  extravagance  and  been  an- 
grily rebuked,  or  had  he  avowed  a  real  pas- 
sion concealed  under  his  exaggerated  mask 
and  been  deliberately  rejected  ?  I  tossed 
uneasily  half  the  night,  following  in  my 
dreams  my  poor  friend's  hurrying  hoof -beats, 
and  ever  starting  from  my  sleep  at  what  I 
thought  was  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs. 

I  rose  early,  and  lounged  into  the  patio ; 
but  others  were  there  before  me,  and  a  small 
group  of  Don  Pedro's  family  were  excitedly 
discussing  something,  and  I  fancied  they 
turned  away  awkwardly  and  consciously  as 
I  approached.  There  was  an  air  of  indefi- 
nite uneasiness  everywhere.  A  strange  fear 
came  over  me  with  the  chill  of  the  early 
morning  air.  Had  anything  happened  to 
Enriquez?  I  had  always  looked  upon  his 
extravagance  as  part  of  his  playful  humor. 
Could  it  be  possible  that  under  the  sting  of 
rejection  he  had  made  his  grotesque  threat 


264      THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENBIQUEZ. 

of  languishing  effacement  real  ?  Surely 
Miss  Mannersley  would  know  or  suspect 
something,  if  it  were  the  case. 

I  approached  one  of  the  Mexican  women 
and  asked  if  the  senorita  had  risen.  The 
woman  started,  and  looked  covertly  round 
before  she  replied.  Did  not  Don  Pancho 
know  that  Miss  Mannersley  and  her  maid 
had  not  slept  in  their  beds  that  night,  but 
had  gone,  none  knew  where  ? 

For  an  instant  I  felt  an  appalling  sense  of 
my  own  responsibility  in  this  suddenly  seri- 
ous situation,  and  hurried  after  the  retreat- 
ing family  group.  But  as  I  entered  the  cor- 
ridor a  vaquero  touched  me  on  the  shoulder,, 
He  had  evidently  just  dismounted,  and  was 
covered  with  the  dust  of  the  road.  He 
handed  me  a  note  written  in  pencil  on  a  leaf 
from  Miss  Mamiersley's  sketch-book.  It 
was  in  Enriquez'  hand,  and  his  signature 
was  followed  by  his  most  extravagant  ru- 
bric. 

"Friend  Pancho:  When  you  read  this 
line  you  shall  of  a  possibility  think  I  am  no 
more.  That  is  where  you  shall  slip  up,  my 
little  brother  I  I  am  much  more  —  I  am  two 
times  as  much,  for  I  have  marry  Miss  Bos- 
ton. At  the  Mission  Church,  at  five  of  the 


THE  DEVOTION  OF  ENBIQUEZ.      265 

morning,  sharp !  No  cards  shall  be  left !  I 
kiss  the  hand  of  my  venerable  uncle-in-law. 
You  shall  say  to  him  that  we  fly  to  the  South 
wilderness  as  the  combined  evangelical  mis- 
sionary to  the  heathen  !  Miss  Boston  herself 
say  thiso  Ta-ta !  How  are  you  now  ? 

"  Your  own         ENRIQUEZ." 


IN    A    HOLLOW    OF    THE    HILLS 


IN  A   HOLLOW  OF   THE  HILLS. 


CHAPTER   I. 

IT  was  very  dark,  and  the  wind  was  in- 
creasing. The  last  gust  had  been  preceded 
by  an  ominous  roaring  down  the  whole 
mountain -side,  which  continued  for  some 
time  after  the  trees  in  the  little  valley  had 
lapsed  into  silence.  The  air  was  filled  with 
a  faint,  cool,  sodden  odor,  as  of  stirred  for- 
est depths.  In  those  intervals  of  silence 
the  darkness  seemed  to  increase  in  propor- 
tion and  grow  almost  palpable.  Yet  out  of 
this  sightless  and  soundless  void  now  came 
the  tinkle  of  a  spur's  rowels,  the  dry  crack- 
ling of  saddle  leathers,  and  the  muffled 
plunge  of  a  hoof  in  the  thick  carpet  of  dust 
and  desiccated  leaves.  Then  a  voice,  which 
in  spite  of  its  matter-of-fact  reality  the  ob- 
scurity lent  a  certain  mystery  to,  said :  — 

"  I  can't    make    out    anything !     Where 


2  IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

the  devil  have  we  got  to,  anyway  ?  It 's  as 
black  as  Tophet,  here  ahead !  " 

"  Strike  a  light  and  make  a  flare  with 
something,"  returned  a  second  voice.  "  Look 
where  you  're  shoving  to  —  now  —  keep 
your  horse  off,  will  ye." 

There  was  more  muffled  plunging,  a 
silence,  the  rustle  of  paper,  the  quick  spurt 
of  a  match,  and  then  the  uplifting  of  a  flick- 
ering flame.  But  it  revealed  only  the  heads 
and  shoulders  of  three  horsemen,  framed 
within  a  nebulous  ring  of  light,  that  still  left 
their  horses  and  even  their  lower  figures  in 
impenetrable  shadow.  Then  the  flame  leaped 
up  and  died  out  with  a  few  zigzagging 
sparks  that  were  falling  to  the  ground,  when 
a  third  voice,  that  was  low  but  somewhat 
pleasant  in  its  cadence,  said :  — 

"  Be  careful  where  you  throw  that.  You 
were  careless  last  time.  With  this  wind  and 
the  leaves  like  tinder,  you  might  send  a  fur- 
nace blast  through  the  woods." 

"  Then  at  least  we  'd  see  where  we  were." 

Nevertheless,  he  moved  his  horse,  whose 
trampling  hoofs  beat  out  the  last  fallen  spark. 
Complete  darkness  and  silence  again  fol- 
lowed. Presently  the  first  speaker  con- 
tinued :  — 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.  3 

"  I  reckon  we  '11  have  to  wait  here  till  the 
next  squall  clears  away  the  scud  from  the 
sky.  HeUo!  What's  that?" 

Out  of  the  obscurity  before  them  ap- 
peared a  faint  light, — a  dun  but  perfectly 
defined  square  of  radiance,  —  which,  how- 
ever, did  not  appear  to  illuminate  anything 
around  it.  Suddenly  it  disappeared. 

"  That 's  a  house  —  it 's  a  light  in  a  win- 
dow," said  the  second  voice. 

"House  be  d — d!"  retorted  the  first 
speaker.  "  A  house  with  a  window  on  Gal- 
loper's Ridge,  fifteen  miles  from  anywhere  ? 
You  're  crazy  !  " 

Nevertheless,  from  the  muffled  plunging 
and  tinkling  that  followed,  they  seemed  to 
be  moving  in  the  direction  where  the  light 
had  appeared.  Then  there  was  a  pause. 

"  There  's  nothing  but  a  rocky  outcrop 
here,  where  a  house  could  n't  stand,  and 
we're  off  the  trail  again,"  said  the  first 
speaker  impatiently. 

"  Stop  I  —  there  it  is  again !  " 

The  same  square  of  light  appeared  once 
more,  but  the  horsemen  had  evidently  di- 
verged in  the  darkness,  for  it  seemed  to  be  in 
a  different  direction.  But  it  was  more  dis- 


4          IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

tinct,  and  as  they  gazed  a  shadow  appeared 
upon  its  radiant  surface  —  the  profile  of  a 
human  face.  Then  the  light  suddenly  went 
out,  and  the  face  vanished  with  it. 

"  It  is  a  window,  and  there  was  some  one 
behind  it,"  said  the  second  speaker  emphat- 
ically. 

"  It  was  a  woman's  face,"  said  the  plea- 
sant voice. 

"  Whoever  it  is,  just  hail  them,  so  that 
we  can  get  our  bearings.  Sing  out !  All 
together ! " 

The  three  voices  rose  in  a  prolonged 
shout,  in  which,  however,  the  distinguishing 
quality  of  the  pleasant  voice  was  sustained. 
But  there  was  no  response  from  the  dark- 
ness beyond.  The  shouting  was  repeated 
after  an  interval  with  the  same  result :  the 
silence  and  obscurity  remained  unchanged. 

"  Let 's  get  out  of  this,"  said  the  first 
speaker  angrily ;  "  house  or  no  house,  man 
or  woman,  we  're  not  wanted,  and  we  '11 
make  nothing  waltzing  round  here  !  " 

"  Hush  !  "  said  the  second  voice.  "  Sh-h  ! 
Listen." 

The  leaves  of  the  nearest  trees  were  trill- 
ing audibly.  Then  came  a  sudden  gust  that 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.  O 

swept  the  fronds  of  the  taller  ferns  into 
their  faces,  and  laid  the  thin,  lithe  whips  of 
alder  over  their  horses'  flanks  sharply.  It 
was  followed  by  the  distant  sea-like  roaring 
of  the  mountain-side. 

"  That 's  a  little  more  like  it !  "  said  the 
first  speaker  joyfully.  "  Another  blow  like 
that  and  we  're  all  right.  And  look  J 
there 's  a  lightenin'  up  over  the  trail  we 
came  by." 

There  was  indeed  a  faint  glow  in  that 
direction,  like  the  first  suffusion  of  dawn, 
permitting  the  huge  shoulder  of  the  moun- 
tain along  whose  flanks  they  had  been  jour- 
neying to  be  distinctly  seen.  The  sodden 
breath  of  the  stirred  forest  depths  was 
slightly  tainted  with  an  acrid  fume. 

"  That 's  the  match  you  threw  away  two 
hours  ago,"  said  the  pleasant  voice  delib- 
erately. "  It 's  caught  the  dry  brush  in  the 
trail  round  the  bend." 

"  Anyhow,  it 's  given  us  our  bearings, 
boys,"  said  the  first  speaker,  with  satisfied 
accents.  "  We  're  all  right  now ;  and  the 
wind's  lifting  the  sky  ahead  there.  For- 
ward now,  all  together,  and  let 's  get  out  of 
this  hell-hole  while  we  can  I  " 


6       iy  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

It  was  so  much  lighter  that  the  bulk  of 
each  horseman  could  be  seen  as  they  moved 
forward  together.  But  there  was  no  thin- 
ning of  the  obscurity  on  either  side  of  them. 
Nevertheless  the  profile  of  the  horseman 
with  the  pleasant  voice  seemed  to  be  occa- 
sionally turned  backward,  and  he  suddenly 
checked  his  horse, 

"  There 's  the  window  again  !  "  he  said. 
"  Look  !  There  —  it 's  gone  again." 

"  Let  it  go  and  be  d — d !  "  returned  the 
leader.  "  Come  on." 

They  spurred  forward  in  silence.  It  was 
not  long  before  the  wayside  trees  began  to 
dimly  show  spaces  between  them,  and  the 
ferns  to  give  way  to  lower,  thick-set  shrubs, 
which  in  turn  yielded  to  a  velvety  moss, 
with  long  quiet  intervals  of  netted  and  tan- 
gled grasses.  The  regular  fall  of  the  horses' 
feet  became  a  mere  rhythmic  throbbing. 
Then  suddenly  a  single  hoof  rang  out  sharply 
on  stone,  and  the  first  speaker  reined  in 
slightly. 

"  Thank  the  Lord  we  're  on  the  ridge 
now  !  and  the  rest  is  easy.  Tell  you  what, 
though,  boys,  now  we  're  all  right,  I  don't 
mind  saying  that  I  did  n't  take  no  stock  in 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.  1 

that  blamed  corpse  light  down  there.  If 
there  ever  was  a  will-o'-the-wisp  on  a  square 
up  mountain,  that  was  one.  It  was  n't  no 
window !  Some  of  ye  thought  ye  saw  a  face 
too— eh?" 

"  Yes,  and  a  rather  pretty  one,"  said  the 
pleasant  voice  meditatively. 

"  That 's  the  way  they  'd  build  that  sort 
of  thing,  of  course.  It 's  lucky  ye  had 
to  satisfy  yourself  with  looking.  Gosh  !  I 
feel  creepy  yet,  thinking  of  it !  What  are 
ye  looking  back  for  now  like  Lot's  wife  ? 
Blamed  if  I  don't  think  that  face  bewitched 

ye." 

"  I  was  only  thinking  about  that  fire  you 
started,"  returned  the  other  quietly.  "I 
don't  see  it  now." 

"Well  — if  you  did?" 

"  I  was  wondering  whether  it  could  reach 
that  hollow." 

"  I  reckon  that  hollow  could  take  care  of 
any  casual  nat'rel  fire  that  came  boomin' 
along,  and  go  two  better  every  time !  Why, 
I  don't  believe  there  was  any  fire ;  it  was 
all  a  piece  of  that  infernal  ignis  fatuus 
phantasmagoriana  that  was  played  upon  us 
down  there ! " 


8  IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

With  the  laugh  that  followed  they  started 
forward  again,  relapsing  into  the  silence  of 
tired  men  at  the  end  of  a  long  journey. 
Even  their  few  remarks  were  inter jectional, 
or  reminiscent  of  topics  whose  freshness  had 
been  exhausted  with  the  day.  The  gaining 
light  which  seemed  to  come  from  the  ground 
about  them  rather  than  from  the  still,  over- 
cast sky  above,  defined  their  individuality 
more  distinctly.  The  man  who  had  first 
spoken,  and  who  seemed  to  be  their  leader, 
wore  the  virgin  unshaven  beard,  mustache, 
and  flowing  hair  of  the  Californian  pioneer, 
and  might  have  been  the  eldest ;  the  second 
speaker  was  close  shaven,  thin,  and  ener- 
getic ;  the  third,  with  the  pleasant  voice,  in 
height,  litheness,  and  suppleness  of  figure 
appeared  to  be  the  youngest  of  the  party. 
The  trail  had  now  become  a  grayish  streak 
along  the  level  table-land  they  were  follow- 
ing, which  also  had  the  singular  effect  of 
appearing  lighter  than  the  surrounding  land- 
scape, yet  of  plunging  into  utter  darkness 
on  either  side  of  its  precipitous  walls. 
Nevertheless,  at  the  end  of  an  hour  the 
leader  rose  in  his  stirrups  with  a  sigh  of 
satisfaction. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.  9 

"There's  the  light  in  Collinson's  Mill! 
There 's  nothing  gaudy  and  spectacular 
about  that,  boys,  eh?  No,  sir!  it 's  a  square, 
honest  beacon  that  a  man  can  steer  by. 
We  '11  be  there  in  twenty  minutes."  He 
was  pointing  into  the  darkness  below  the 
already  descending  trail.  Only  a  pioneer's 
eye  could  have  detected  the  few  pin-pricks 
of  light  in  the  impenetrable  distance,  and  it 
was  a  signal  proof  of  his  leadership  that  the 
others  accepted  it  without  seeing  it.  "  It 's 
just  ten  o'clock,"  he  continued,  holding  a 
huge  silver  watch  to  his  eye  ;  "  we  've  wasted 
an  hour  on  those  blamed  spooks  yonder !  " 

"  We  were  n't  off  the  trail  more  than  ten 
minutes,  Uncle  Dick,"  protested  the  plea- 
sant voice. 

"  All  right,  my  son ;  go  down  there  if  you 
like  and  fetch  out  your  Witch  of  Endor,  but 
as  for  me,  I  'm  going  to  throw  myself  the 
other  side  of  Collinson's  lights.  They're 
good  enough  for  me,  and  a  blamed  sight 
more  stationary !  " 

The  grade  was  very  steep,  but  they  took 
it,  California  fashion,  at  a  gallop,  being  gen- 
uinely good  riders,  and  using  their  brains  as 
well  as  their  spurs  in  the  understanding  of 


10         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

their  horses,  and  of  certain  natural  laws,  which 
the  more  artificial  riders  of  civilization  are 
apt  to  overlook.  Hence  there  was  no  hesi- 
tation or  indecision  communicated  to  the 
nervous  creatures  they  bestrode,  who  swept 
over  crumbling  stones  and  slippery  ledges 
with  a  momentum  that  took  away  half  their 
weight,  and  made  a  stumble  or  false  step, 
or  indeed  anything  but  an  actual  collision, 
almost  impossible.  Closing  together  they 
avoided  the  latter,  and  holding  each  other 
well  up,  became  one  irresistible  wedge-shaped 
mass.  At  times  they  yelled,  not  from  con- 
sciousness nor  bravado,  but  from  the  purely 
animal  instinct  of  warning  and  to  combat 
the  breathlessness  of  their  descent,  until, 
reaching  the  level,  they  charged  across  the 
gravelly  bed  of  a  vanished  river,  and  pulled 
up  at  Collinson's  Mill.  The  mill  itself  had 
long  since  vanished  with  the  river,  but  the 
building  that  had  once  stood  for  it  was  used 
as  a  rude  hostelry  for  travelers,  which, 
however,  bore  no  legend  or  invitatory  sign. 
Those  who  wanted  it,  knew  it ;  those  who 
passed  it  by,  gave  it  no  offense. 

Collinson  himself  stood  by  the  door,  smok- 
ing a  contemplative  pipe.     As  they  rode  up, 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        11 

he  disengaged  himself  from  the  doorpost  list- 
lessly, walked  slowly  towards  them,  said  re- 
flectively to  the  leader,  "  I  've  been  thinking 
with  you  that  a  vote  for  Thompson  is  a  vote 
thrown  away,"  and  prepared  to  lead  the 
horses  towards  the  water  tank.  He  had 
parted  with  them  over  twelve  hours  before, 
but  his  air  of  simply  renewing  a  recently 
interrupted  conversation  was  too  common  a 
circumstance  to  attract  their  notice.  They 
knew,  and  he  knew,  that  no  one  else  had 
passed  that  way  since  he  had  last  spoken ; 
that  the  same  sun  had  swung  silently  above 
him  and  the  unchanged  landscape,  and  there 
had  been  no  interruption  nor  diversion  to  his 
monotonous  thought.  The  wilderness  anni- 
hilates time  and  space  with  the  grim  pathos 
of  patience. 

Nevertheless  he  smiled.  "  Ye  don't  seem 
to  have  got  through  coming  down  yet,"  he 
continued,  as  a  few  small  boulders,  loosened 
in  their  rapid  descent,  came  more  deliberately 
rolling  and  plunging  after  the  travelers 
along  the  gravelly  bottom.  Then  he  turned 
away  with  the  horses,  and,  after  they  were 
watered,  he  reentered  the  house.  His  guests 
had  evidently  not  waited  for  his  ministration. 


12        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

They  had  already  taken  one  or  two  bottles 
from  the  shelves  behind  a  wide  bar  and 
helped  themselves,  and,  glasses  in  hand,  were 
now  satisfying  the  more  imminent  cravings 
of  hunger  with  biscuits  from  a  barrel  and 
slices  of  smoked  herring  from  a  box.  Their 
equally  singular  host,  accepting  their  conduct 
as  not  unusual,  joined  the  circle  they  had 
comfoi-tably  drawn  round  the  fireplace,  and 
meditatively  kicking  a  brand  back  at  the 
fire,  said,  without  looking  at  them :  — 

"Well?" 

"Well!"  returned  the  leader,  leaning 
back  in  his  chair  after  carefully  unloosing 
the  buckle  of  his  belt,  but  with  his  eyes  also 
on  the  fire,  —  "  well !  we  've  prospected  every 
yard  of  outcrop  along  the  Divide,  and  there 
ain't  the  ghost  of  a  silver  indication  any- 
where." 

"Not  a  smell,"  added  the  close-shaven 
guest,  without  raising  his  eyes. 

They  all  remained  silent,  looking  at  the 
fire,  as  if  it  were  the  one  thing  they  had 
taken  into  their  confidence.  Collinson  also 
addressed  himself  to  the  blaze  as  he  said 
presently :  "  It  allus  seemed  to  me  that  thar 
was  something  shiny  about  that  ledge  just 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        13 

round  the  shoulder  of  the  spur,  over  the 
long  canon." 

The  leader  ejaculated  a  short  laugh. 
"  Shiny,  eh  ?  shiny  !  Ye  think  that  a  sign  ? 
Why,  you  might  as  well  reckon  that  because 
Key's  head,  over  thar,  is  gray  and  silvery 
that  he's  got  sabe  and  experience."  As  he 
spoke  he  looked  towards  the  man  with  a 
pleasant  voice.  The  fire  shining  full  upon 
him  revealed  the  singular  fact  that  while  his 
face  was  still  young,  and  his  mustache  quite 
dark,  his  hair  was  perfectly  gray.  The 
object  of  this  attention,  far  from  being  dis- 
concerted by  the  comparison,  added  with  a 
smile :  — 

"  Or  that  he  had  any  silver  in  his  pocket." 

Another  lapse  of  silence  followed.  The 
wind  tore  round  the  house  and  rumbled  in 
the  short,  adobe  chimney. 

"  No,  gentlemen,"  said  the  leader  reflec- 
tively, "  this  sort  o'  thing  is  played  out.  I 
don't  take  no  more  stock  in  that  cock-and- 
bull  story  about  the  lost  Mexican  mine.  I 
don't  catch  on  to  that  Sunday-school  yarn 
about  the  pious,  scientific  sharp  who  col- 
lected leaves  and  vegetables  all  over  the 
Divide,  all  the  while  he  scientifically  knew 


14        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

that  the  range  was  solid  silver,  only  he 
wouldn't  soil  his  fingers  with  God-forsaken 
lucre.  I  ain't  saying  anything  agin  that 
fine-spun  theory  that  Key  believes  in  about 
volcanic  upheavals  that  set  up  on  end  ar- 
gentiferous rock,  but  I  simply  say  that  / 
don't  see  it — with  the  naked  eye.  And  I 
reckon  it 's  about  time,  boys,  as  the  game 's 
up,  that  we  handed  in  our  checks,  and  left 
the  board." 

There  was  another  silence  around  the  fire, 
another  whirl  and  turmoil  without.  There 
was  no  attempt  to  combat  the  opinions  of 
their  leader ;  possibly  the  same  sense  of  dis- 
appointed hopes  was  felt  by  all,  only  they 
preferred  to  let  the  man  of  greater  experi- 
ence voice  it.  He  went  on  :  — 

"  We  've  had  our  little  game,  boys,  ever 
since  we  left  Rawlin's  a  week  ago ;  we  've 
had  our  ups  and  downs ;  we  Ve  been  starved 
and  parched,  snowed  up  and  half  drowned, 
shot  at  by  road-agents  and  horse-thieves, 
kicked  by  mules  and  played  with  by  grizzlies. 
We  've  had  a  heap  o'  fun,  boys,  for  our 
money,  but  I  reckon  the  picnic  is  about  over. 
So  we  '11  shake  hands  to-morrow  all  round 
and  call  it  square,  and  go  on  our  ways 
separately." 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        15 

"  And  what  do  you  think  you  '11  do,  Uncle 
Dick  ?  "  said  his  close-shaven  companion  list- 
lessly. 

"  I  '11  make  tracks  for  a  square  meal,  a 
bed  that  a  man  can  comfortably  take  off 
his  boots  and  die  in,  and  some  violet-scented 
soap.  Civilization 's  good  enough  for  me  ! 
I  even  reckon  I  would  n't  mind  '  the  sound 
of  the  church-going  bell '  ef  there  was  a  the- 
atre handy,  as  there  likely  would  be.  But 
the  wilderness  is  played  out." 

"  You  '11  be  back  to  it  again  in  six  months, 
Uncle  Dick,"  retorted  the  other  quickly. 

Uncle  Dick  did  not  reply.  It  was  a 
peculiarity  of  the  party  that  in  their  isolated 
companionship  they  had  already  exhausted 
discussion  and  argument.  A  silence  fol- 
lowed, in  which  they  all  looked  at  the  fire  as 
if  it  was  its  turn  to  make  a  suggestion. 

"  Collinson,"  said  the  pleasant  voice  ab- 
ruptly, "  who  lives  in  the  hollow  this  side 
of  the  Divide,  about  two  miles  from  the  first 
spur  above  the  big  canon  ?  " 

"  Nary  soul !  " 

"  Are  you  sure  ?  " 

"  Sartin !  Thar  ain't  no  one  but  me 
betwixt  Bald  Top  and  Skinner's  —  twenty- 
five  miles." 


16        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  Of  course,  you  'd  know  if  any  one  had 
come  there  lately  ?  "  persisted  the  pleasant 
voice. 

"I  reckon.  It  ain't  a  week  ago  that  I 
tramped  the  whole  distance  that  you  fellers 
just  rode  over." 

"  There  ain't,"  said  the  leader  deliberately, 
"  any  enchanted  castle  or  cabin  that  goes 
waltzing  round  the  road  with  revolving  win- 
dows and  fairy  princesses  looking  out  of 
'em?" 

But  Collinson,  recognizing  this  as  purely 
irrelevant  humor,  with  possibly  a  trap  or 
pitfall  in  it,  moved  away  from  the  fireplace 
without  a  word,  and  retired  to  the  adjoining 
kitchen  to  prepare  supper.  Presently  he 
reappeared. 

"  The  pork  bar'l  's  empty,  boys,  so  I  '11 
hev  to  fix  ye  up  with  jerked  beef,  potatoes, 
and  flapjacks.  Ye  see,  thar  ain't  anybody 
ben  over  from  Skinner's  store  for  a  week." 

"  All  right ;  only  hurry  up ! "  said  Uncle 
Dick  cheerfully,  settling  himself  back  in  his 
chair.  "  I  reckon  to  turn  in  as  soon  as  I  've 
rastled  with  your  hash,  for  I  Ve  got  to  turn 
out  agin  and  be  off  at  sun-up." 

They  were  all  very  quiet  again,  —  so  quiet 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         17 

that  they  could  not  help  noticing  that  the 
sound  of  Collinson's  preparations  for  their 
supper  had  ceased  too.  Uncle  Dick  arose 
softly  and  walked  to  the  kitchen  door.  Col- 
linson  was  sitting  before  a  small  kitchen 
stove,  with  a  fork  in  his  hand,  gazing  ab- 
stractedly before  him.  At  the  sound  of 
his  guest's  footsteps  he  started,  and  the  noise 
of  preparation  recommenced.  Uncle  Dick 
returned  to  his  chair  by  the  fire.  Leaning 
towards  the  chair  of  the  close-shaven  man,  he 
said  in  a  lower  voice :  — 
"  He  was  off  agin  I  " 
"What?" 

"  Thinkin'  of  that  wife  of  his." 
"What   about   his   wife?"   asked  Key, 
lowering  his  voice  also. 

The  three  men's  heads  were  close  together., 
"  When  Collinson  fixed  up  this  mill  he 
sent  for  his  wife  in  the  States,"  said  Uncle 
Dick,  in  a  half  whisper,  "  waited  a  year  for 
her,  hanging  round  and  boarding  every  emi- 
grant wagon  that  came  through  the  Pass. 
She  did  n't  come  —  only  the  news  that  she 
was  dead."  He  paused  and  nudged  his 
chair  still  closer  —  the  heads  were  almost 
touching.  "  They  say,  over  in  the  Bar  "  — 


18         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

his  voice   had   sunk  to  a  complete  whisper 

—  "  that  it  was  a  lie  !     That  she  ran  away 
with  the    man   that  was   fetchin'    her  out. 
Three  thousand  miles  and  three  weeks  with 
another  man  upsets  some  women.     But  he 
knows  nothing  about  it,  only  he  sometimes 
kinder  goes  off  looney-like,  thinking  of  her." 
He  stopped,  the  heads  separated  ;  Colliiison 
had  appeared  at  the  doorway,  his  melancholy 
patience  apparently  unchanged. 

"  Grub  's  on,  gentlemen ;  sit  by  and  eat." 
The  humble  meal  was  dispatched  with 
zest  and  silence.  A  few  interjectional  re- 
marks about  the  uncertainties  of  prospecting 
only  accented  the  other  pauses.  In  ten 
minutes  they  were  out  again  by  the  fireplace 
with  their  lit  pipes.  As  there  were  only 
three  chairs,  Collinson  stood  beside  the 
chimney. 

"  Collinson,"  said  Uncle  Dick,  after  the 
usual  pause,  taking  his  pipe  from  his  lips, 
"  as  we  've  got  to  get  up  and  get  at  sun-up, 
we  might  as  well  tell  you  now  that  we  're 
dead  broke.  We  Ve  been  living  for  the 
last  few  weeks  on  Preble  Key's  loose  change 

—  and  that 's  gone.     You  '11  have  to  let  this 
little  account  and  damage  stand  over." 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        19 

Collinson's  brow  slightly  contracted,  with- 
out, however,  altering  his  general  expression 
of  resigned  patience. 

"  I  'm  sorry  for  you,  boys,"  he  said  slowly, 
"  and  "  (diffidently)  "  kinder  sorry  for  my- 
self, too.  You  see,  I  reckoned  on  goin'  over 
to  Skinner's  to-morrow,  to  fill  up  the  pork 
bar'l  and  vote  for  Mesick  and  the  wagon- 
road.  But  Skinner  can't  let  me  have 
anything  more  until  I've  paid  suthin'  on 
account,  as  he  calls  it." 

"  D'  ye  mean  to  say  thar  's  any  mountain 
man  as  low  flung  and  mean  as  that  ?  "  said 
Uncle  Dick  indignantly. 

"  But  it  is  n't  his  fault,"  said  Collinson 
gently;  "you  see,  they  won't  send  hinj 
goods  from  Sacramento  if  he  don't  pay  up, 
and  he  can't  if  I  don't.  Sabe  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  that 's  another  thing.  They  are 
mean  —  in  Sacramento,"  said  Uncle  Dick, 
somewhat  mollified. 

The  other  guests  murmured  an  assent  to 
this  general  proposition.  Suddenly  Uncle 
Dick's  face  brightened. 

"  Look  here  !  I  know  Skinner,  and  I  '11 
stop  there  —  No,  blank  it  all !  I  can't,  for 
it 's  off  my  route !  Well,  then,  we  '11  fix  it 
Bret  Harte  10— V.  6 


20        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

this  way.  Key  will  go  there  and  tell  Skin- 
ner that  /  say  that  Pll  send  the  money  to 
that  Sacramento  hound.  That  '11  fix  it !  " 

Collinson's  brow  cleared ;  the  solution  of 
the  difficulty  seemed  to  satisfy  everybody, 
and  the  close-shaven  man  smiledo 

"  And  I  '11  secure  it,"  he  said,  "  and  give 
Collinson  a  sight  draft  on  myself  at  San 
Francisco." 

"  What 's  that  for  ?  "  said  Collinson,  with 
a  sudden  suffusion  on  each  cheek. 

"  In  case  of  accident." 

"  Wot  accident  ?  "  persisted  Collinson, 
with  a  dark  look  of  suspicion  on  his  usually 
placid  face. 

"  In  case  we  should  forget  it,"  said  the 
close-shaven  man,  with  a  laugh. 

"  And  do  you  suppose  that  if  you  boys 
went  and  forgot  it  that  I  'd  have  anything 
to  do  with  your  d — d  paper?"  said  Collin- 
son, a  murky  cloud  coming  into  his  eyes. 

"  Why,  that 's  only  business,  Colly,"  in- 
terposed Uncle  Dick  quickly ;  "  that 's  all 
Jim  Parker  means ;  he  's  a  business  man, 
don't  you  see.  Suppose  we  got  killed ! 
You  've  that  draft  to  show." 

"  Show  who  ?  "  growled  Collinson. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        21 

"  Why,  —  hang  it !  —  our  friends,  our 
heirs,  our  relations  —  to  get  your  money," 
hesitated  Uncle  Dick. 

"  And  do  you  kalkilate,"  said  Collinson, 
with  deeply  laboring  breath,  "  that  if  you 
got  killed,  that  I  'd  be  coming  on  your  folks 
for  the  worth  of  the  d — d  truck  I  giv  ye  ? 
Go  'way !  Lemme  git  out  o'  this.  You  're 
makin'  me  tired."  He  stalked  to  the  door, 
lit  his  pipe,  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down 
the  gravelly  river-bed.  Uncle  Dick  followed 
him.  From  time  to  time  the  two  other 
guests  heard  the  sounds  of  alternate  protest 
and  explanation  as  they  passed  and  repassed 
the  windows.  Preble  Key  smiled,  Parker 
shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  He  '11  be  thinkin'  you  've  begrudged  him 
your  grub  if  you  don't  —  that's  the  way 
with  these  business  men,"  said  Uncle  Dick's 
voice  in  one  of  these  intervals.  Presently 
they  reentered  the  house,  Uncle  Dick  say- 
ing casually  to  Parker,  "  You  can  leave  that 
draft  on  the  bar  when  you  're  ready  to  go 
to-morrow ;  "  and  the  incident  was  presumed 
to  have  ended.  But  Collinson  did  not  glance 
in  the  direction  of  Parker  for  the  rest  of  the 
evening ;  and,  indeed,  standing  with  his  back 


22        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

to  the  chimney,  more  than  once  fell  into  that 
stolid  abstraction  which  was  supposed  to  be 
the  contemplation  of  his  absent  wife. 

From  this  silence,  which  became  infec- 
tious, the  three  guests  were  suddenly  aroused 
by  a  furious  clattering  down  the  steep  de- 
scent of  the  mountain,  along  the  trail  they 
had  just  ridden  !  It  came  near,  increasing 
in  sound,  until  it  even  seemed  to  scatter  the 
fine  gravel  of  the  river-bed  against  the  sides 
of  the  house,  and  then  passed  in  a  gust  of 
wind  that  shook  the  roof  and  roared  in  the 
chimney.  With  one  common  impulse  the 
three  travelers  rose  and  went  to  the  door. 
They  opened  it  to  a  blackness  that  seemed 
to  stand  as  another  and  an  iron  door  before 
them,  but  to  nothing  else. 

"  Somebody  went  by  then,"  said  Uncle 
Dick,  turning  to  Collinson.  "  Did  n't  you 
hear  it?" 

"  Nary,"  said  Collinson  patiently,  without 
moving  from  the  chimney. 

"  What  in  God's  name  was  it,  then  ?  " 

"  Only  some  of  them  boulders  you  loosed 
coming  down.  It 's  touch  and  go  with  them 
for  days  after.  When  I  first  came  here  I 
used  to  start  up  and  rush  out  into  the  road 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        23 

—  like  as  you  would  —  yellin'  and  screechin' 
after  folks  that  never  was  there  and  never 
went  by.  Then  it  got  kinder  monotonous, 
and  I  'd  lie  still  and  let  'em  slide.  Why, 
one  night  I  'd  'a'  sworn  that  some  one  pulled 
up  with  a  yell  and  shook  the  door.  But  I 
sort  of  allowed  to  myself  that  whatever  it 
was,  it  was  n't  wantin'  to  eat,  drink,  sleep, 
or  it  would  come  in,  and  I  had  n't  any 
call  to  interfere.  And  in  the  mornin'  I 
found  a  rock  as  big  as  that  box,  lying  chock- 
a-block  agin  the  door.  Then  I  knowed  I 
was  right." 

Preble  Key  remained  looking  from  the 
door. 

"  There 's  a  glow  in  the  sky  over  Big 
Canon,"  he  said,  with  a  meaning  glance  at 
Uncle  Dick. 

"Saw  it  an  hour  ago,"  said  Collinson. 
"  It  must  be  the  woods  afire  just  round  the 
bend  above  the  canon.  Whoever  goes  to 
Skinner's  had  better  give  it  a  wide  berth." 

Key  turned  towards  Collinson  as  if  to 
speak,  but  apparently  changed  his  mind,  and 
presently  joined  his  companions,  who  were 
already  rolling  themselves  in  their  blankets, 
in  a  series  of  wooden  bunks  or  berths, 


24         IZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

ranged  as  in  a  ship's  cabin,  around  the  walls 
of  a  resinous,  sawdusty  apartment  that  had 
been  the  measuring  room  of  the  mill.  Col- 
linson  disappeared,  —  no  one  knew  or  seemed 
to  care  where,  —  and,  in  less  than  ten  min- 
utes from  the  time  that  they  had  returned 
from  the  door,  the  hush  of  sleep  and  rest 
seemed  to  possess  the  whole  house.  There 
was  no  light  but  that  of  the  fire  in  the  front 
room,  which  threw  flickering  and  gigantic 
shadows  on  the  walls  of  the  three  empty 
chairs  before  it.  An  hour  later  it  seemed 
as  if  one  of  the  chairs  were  occupied,  and  a 
grotesque  profile  of  Collinson's  slumbering 
—  or  meditating  —  face  and  figure  was  pro- 
jected grimly  on  the  rafters  as  though  it 
were  the  hovering  guardian  spirit  of  the 
house.  But  even  that  passed  presently  and 
faded  out,  and  the  beleaguering  darkness 
that  had  encompassed  the  house  all  the  even- 
ing began  to  slowly  creep  in  through  every 
chink  and  cranny  of  the  rambling,  ill-jointed 
structure,  until  it  at  last  obliterated  even  the 
faint  embers  on  the  hearth.  The  cool  fra- 
grance of  the  woodland  depths  crept  in  with 
it  until  the  steep  of  human  warmth,  the  reek 
of  human  clothing,  and  the  lingering  odors 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        25 

of  stale  human  victual  were  swept  away  in 
that  incorruptible  and  omnipotent  breath. 
An  hour  later  —  and  the  wilderness  had  re- 
possessed itself  of  all. 

Key,  the  lightest  sleeper,  awoke  early,  — 
so  early  that  the  dawn  announced  itself  only 
in  two  dim  squares  of  light  that  seemed  to 
grow  out  of  the  darkness  at  the  end  of  the 
room  where  the  windows  looked  out  upon 
the  valley.  This  reminded  him  of  his  wood- 
land vision  of  the  night  before,  and  he  lay 
and  watched  them  until  they  brightened  and 
began  to  outline  the  figures  of  his  still 
sleeping  companions.  But  there  were  faint 
stirrings  elsewhere,  —  the  soft  brushing  of  a 
squirrel  across  the  shingled  roof,  the  tiny 
flutter  of  invisible  wings  in  the  rafters,  the 
"  peep  "  and  "  squeak  "  of  baby  life  below 
the  floor.  And  then  he  fell  into  a  deeper 
sleep,  and  awoke  only  when  it  was  broad 
day. 

The  sun  was  shining  upon  the  empty 
bunks ;  his  companions  were  already  up 
and  gone.  They  had  separated  as  they 
had  come  together,  —  with  the  light-hearted 
irresponsibility  of  animals,  —  without  regret, 
and  scarcely  reminiscence;  bearing,  with 


26        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

cheerful  philosophy  and  the  hopefulness  of 
a  future  unfettered  by  their  past,  the  final 
disappointment  of  their  quest.  If  they  ever 
met  again,  they  would  laugh  and  remember ; 
if  they  did  not,  they  would  forget  without  a 
sigh.  He  hurriedly  dressed  himself,  and 
went  outside  to  dip  his  face  and  hands  in 
the  bucket  that  stood  beside  the  door ;  but 
the  clear  air,  the  dazzling  sunshine,  and  the 
unexpected  prospect  half  intoxicated  him. 

The  abandoned  mill  stretched  beside  him 
in  all  the  pathos  of  its  premature  decay. 
The  ribs  of  the  water-wheel  appeared  amid 
a  tangle  of  shrubs  and  driftwood,  and  were 
twined  with  long  grasses  and  straggling 
vines ;  mounds  of  sawdust  and  heaps  of 
"  brush  "  had  taken  upon  themselves  a  vel- 
vety moss  where  the  trickling  slime  of  the 
vanished  river  lost  itself  in  sluggish  pools, 
discolored  with  the  dyes  of  redwood.  But 
on  the  other  side  of  the  rocky  ledge  dropped 
the  whole  length  of  the  valley,  alternately 
bathed  in  sunshine  or  hidden  in  drifts  of 
white  and  clinging  smoke.  The  upper  end 
of  the  long  canon,  and  the  crests  of  the 
ridge  above  him,  were  lost  in  this  fleecy 
cloud,  which  at  times  seemed  to  overflow 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        27 

the  summits  and  fall  in  slow  leaps  like  lazy 
cataracts  down  the  mountain-side.  Only  the 
range  before  the  ledge  was  clear ;  there  the 
green  pines  seemed  to  swell  onward  and  up- 
ward in  long  mounting  billows,  until  at  last 
they  broke  against  the  sky. 

In  the  keen  stimulus  of  the  hour  and  the 
air  Key  felt  the  mountaineer's  longing  for 
action,  and  scarcely  noticed  that  Collinson 
had  pathetically  brought  out  his  pork  barrel 
to  scrape  together  a  few  remnants  for  his  last 
meal.  It  was  not  until  he  had  finished  his 
coffee,  and  Collinson  had  brought  up  his 
horse,  that  a  slight  sense  of  shame  at  his  own 
and  his  comrades'  selfishness  embarrassed 
his  parting  with  his  patient  host.  He  him- 
self was  going  to  Skinner's  to  plead  for  him ; 
he  knew  that  Parker  had  left  the  draft,  — 
he  had  seen  it  lying  in  the  bar,  —  but  a  new 
sense  of  delicacy  kept  him  from  alluding  to 
it  now.  It  was  better  to  leave  Collinson 
with  his  own  peculiar  ideas  of  the  respon- 
sibilities of  hospitality  unchanged.  Key 
shook  his  hand  warmly,  and  galloped  up 
the  rocky  slope.  But  when  he  had  finally 
reached  the  higher  level,  and  fancied  he 
could  even  now  see  the  dust  raised  by  his 


28        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

departing  comrades  on  their  two  diverging 
paths,  although  he  knew  that  they  had  al- 
ready gone  their  different  ways,  —  perhaps 
never  to  meet  again,  —  his  thoughts  and  his 
eyes  reverted  only  to  the  ruined  mill  below 
him  and  its  lonely  occupant. 

He  could  see  him  quite  distinctly  in  that 
clear  air,  still  standing  before  his  door.  And 
then  he  appeared  to  make  a  parting  gesture 
:  with  his  hand,  and  something  like  snow  flut- 
tered in  the  air  above  his  head.  It  was 
only  the  torn  fragments  of  Parker's  draft, 
which  this  homely  gentleman  of  the  Sierras, 
standing  beside  his  empty  pork  barrel,  had 
scattered  to  the  four  winds. 


CHAPTER  II. 

KEY'S  attention  was  presently  directed  to 
something  more  important  to  his  present 
purpose.  The  keen  wind  which  he  had 
faced  in  mounting  the  grade  had  changed, 
and  was  now  blowing  at  his  back.  His  ex- 
perience of  forest  fires  had  already  taught 
him  that  this  was  too  often  only  the  cold  air 
rushing  in  to  fill  the  vacuum  made  by  the 
conflagration,  and  it  needed  not  his  sensa- 
tion of  an  acrid  smarting  in  his  eyes,  and 
an  unaccountable  dryness  in  the  air  which 
he  was  now  facing,  to  convince  him  that  the 
fire  was  approaching  him.  It  had  evidently 
traveled  faster  than  he  had  expected,  or 
had  diverged  from  its  course.  He  was  dis- 
appointed, not  because  it  would  oblige  him 
to  take  another  route  to  Skinner's,  as  Col- 
linson  had  suggested,  but  for  a  very  differ- 
ent reason.  Ever  since  his  vision  of  the 
preceding  night,  he  had  resolved  to  revisit 
the  hollow  and  discover  the  mystery.  He 


30        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

had  kept  his  purpose  a  secret,  —  partly  be- 
cause he  wished  to  avoid  the  jesting  remarks 
of  his  companions,  but  particularly  because 
he  wished  to  go  alone,  from  a  very  singular 
impression  that  although  they  had  witnessed 
the  incident  he  had  really  seen  more  than 
they  did.  To  this  was  also  added  the  haunt- 
ing fear  he  had  felt  during  the  night  that 
this  mysterious  habitation  and  its  occupants 
were  in  the  track  of  the  conflagration.  He 
had  not  dared  to  dwell  upon  it  openly  on 
account  of  Uncle  Dick's  evident  responsibil- 
ity for  the  origin  of  the  fire ;  he  appeased 
his  conscience  with  the  reflection  that  the 
inmates  of  the  dwelling  no  doubt  had  ample 
warning  in  time  to  escape.  But  still,  he 
and  his  companions  ought  to  have  stopped 
to  help  them,  and  then  —  but  here  he 
paused,  conscious  of  another  reason  he  could 
scarcely  voice  then,  or  even  now.  Preble 
Key  had  not  passed  the  age  of  romance,  but 
like  other  romancists  he  thought  he  had 
evaded  it  by  treating  it  practically. 

Meantime  he  had  reached  the  fork  where 
the  trail  diverged  to  the  right,  and  he  must 
take  that  direction  if  he  wished  to  make 
a  detour  of  the  burning  woods  to  reach 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        31 

Skinner's.  His  momentary  indecision  com- 
municated itself  to  his  horse,  who  halted. 
Recalled  to  himself,  he  looked  down  me- 
chanically, when  his  attention  was  attracted 
by  an  unfamiliar  object  lying  in  the  dust  of 
the  trail.  It  was  a  small  slipper  —  so  small 
that  at  first  he  thought  it  must  have  be- 
longed to  some  child.  He  dismounted  and 
picked  it  up.  It  was  worn  and  shaped  to 
the  foot.  It  could  not  have  lain  there  long, 
for  it  was  not  fillet1-  nor  discolored  by  the 
wind-blown  dust  of  the  trail,  as  all  other 
adjacent  objects  were.  If  it  nad  1/een 
dropped  by  a  passing  traveler,  that  traveler 
must  have  passed  Collinson's,  going  or  com- 
ing, within  the  last  twelve  hours.  It  was 
scarcely  possible  that  the  shoe  could  have 
dropped  from  the  foot  without  the  wearer's 
knowing  it,  and  it  must  have  been  dropped 
in  an  urgent  flight,  or  it  would  have  been 
recovered.  Thus  practically  Key  treated  his 
romance.  And  having  done  so,  he  instantly 
wheeled  his  horse  and  plunged  into  the  road 
in  the  direction  of  the  fire. 

But  he  was  surprised  after  twenty  minutes' 
riding  to  find  that  the  course  of  the  fire  had 
evidently  changed.  It  was  growing  clearer 


32        ZZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

before  him ;  the  dry  heat  seemed  to  come 
more  from  the  right,  in  the  direction  of  the 
detour  he  should  have  taken  to  Skinner's. 
This  seemed  almost  providential,  and  in 
keeping  with  his  practical  treatment  of  his 
romance,  as  was  also  the  fact  that  in  all 
probability  the  fire  had  not  yet  visited  the 
little  hollow  which  he  intended  to  explore. 
He  knew  he  was  nearing  it  now ;  the  local- 
ity had  been  strongly  impressed  upon  him 
even  in  the  darkness  of  the  previous  even- 
ing. He  had  passed  the  rocky  ledge ;  his 
horse's  hoofs  no  longer  rang  out  clearly; 
slowly  and  perceptibly  they  grew  deadened 
in  the  springy  mosses,  and  were  finally  lost 
in  the  netted  grasses  and  tangled  vines  that 
indicated  the  vicinity  of  the  densely  wooded 
hollow.  Here  were  already  some  of  the 
wider  spaced  vanguards  of  that  wood ;  but 
here,  too,  a  peculiar  circumstance  struck  him. 
He  was  already  descending  the  slight  decliv- 
ity; but  the  distance,  instead  of  deepening 
in  leafy  shadow,  was  actually  growing  lighter. 
Here  were  the  outskirting  sentinels  of  the 
wood  —  but  the  wood  itself  was  gone  !  He 
spurred  his  horse  through  the  tall  arch  be- 
tween the  opened  columns,  and  pulled  up  in 
amazement. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        33 

The  wood,  indeed,  was  gone,  and  the  whole 
hollow  filled  with  the  already  black  and 
dead  stumps  of  the  utterly  consumed  for- 
est !  More  than  that,  from  the  indications 
before  him,  the  catastrophe  must  have  al- 
most immediately  followed  his  retreat  from 
the  hollow  on  the  preceding  night.  It  was 
evident  that  the  fire  had  leaped  the  inter- 
vening shoulder  of  the  spur  in  one  of  the 
unaccountable,  but  by  no  means  rare,  phe- 
nomena of  this  kind  of  disaster.  The  cir- 
cling heights  around  were  yet  untouched; 
only  the  hollow,  and  the  ledge  of  rock 
against  which  they  had  blundered  with  their 
horses  when  they  were  seeking  the  mysteri- 
ous window  in  last  evening's  darkness,  were 
calcined  and  destroyed.  He  dismounted  and 
climbed  the  ledge,  still  warm  from  the  spent 
fire.  A  large  mass  of  grayish  outcrop  had 
evidently  been  the  focus  of  the  furnace 
blast  of  heat  which  must  have  raged  for 
hours  in  this  spot.  He  was  skirting  its 
crumbling  debris  when  he  started  suddenly 
at  a  discovery  which  made  everything  else 
fade  into  utter  insignificance.-  Before  him, 
in  a  slight  depression  formed  by  a  fault  or 
lapse  in  the  upheaved  strata,  lay  the  charred 


34        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

and  incinerated  remains  of  a  dwelling-house 
leveled  to  the  earth!  Originally  half  hid- 
den by  a  natural  abattis  of  growing  myrtle 
and  ceanothus  which  covered  this  counter- 
scarp of  rock  towards  the  trail,  it  must 
have  stood  within  a  hundred  feet  of  them 
during  their  halt ! 

Even  in  its  utter  and  complete  oblitera- 
tion by  the  furious  furnace  blast  that  had 
swept  across  it,  there  was  still  to  be  seen  an 
unmistakable  ground  plan  and  outline  of  a 
four-roomed  house.  While  everything  that 
was  combustible  had  succumbed  to  that  in- 
tense heat,  there  was  still  enough  half-fused 
and  warped  metal,  fractured  iron  plate,  and 
twisted  and  broken  bars  to  indicate  the 
kitchen  and  tool  shed.  Very  little  had,  evi- 
dently, been  taken  away ;  the  house  and  its 
contents  were  consumed  where  they  stood. 
With  a  feeling  of  horror  and  desperation 
Key  at  last  ventured  to  disturb  two  or  three 
of  the  blackened  heaps  that  lay  before  him. 
But  they  were  only  vestiges  of  clothing,  bed- 
ding, and  crockery  —  there  was  no  human 
trace  that  he  could  detect.  Nor  was  there 
any  suggestion  of  the  original  condition 
and  quality  of  the  house,  except  its  size: 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        35 

whether  the  ordinary  unsightly  cabin  of 
frontier  "  partners,"  or  some  sylvan  cottage 
—  there  was  nothing  left  but  the  usual  igno- 
ble and  unsavory  ruins  of  burnt-out  human 
habitation. 

And  yet  its  very  existence  was  a  mystery. 
It  had  been  unknown  at  Collinson's,  its 
nearest  neighbor,  and  it  was  presumable 
that  it  was  equally  unknown  at  Skinner's. 
Neither  he  nor  his  companions  had  detected 
it  in  their  first  journey  by  day  through  the 
hollow,  and  only  the  tell-tale  window  at 
night  had  been  a  hint  of  what  was  even 
then  so  successfully  concealed  that  they 
could  not  discover  it  when  they  had  blun- 
dered against  its  rock  foundation.  For  con- 
cealed it  certainly  was,  and  intentionally  so. 
But  for  what  purpose  ? 

He  gave  his  romance  full  play  for  a  few 
minutes  with  this  question.  Some  recluse, 
preferring  the  absolute  simplicity  of  nature, 
or  perhaps  wearied  with  the  artificialities  of 
society,  had  secluded  himself  here  with  the 
company  of  his  only  daughter.  Proficient 
as  a  pathfinder,  he  had  easily  discovered 
some  other  way  of  provisioning  his  house 
from  the  settlements  than  by  the  ordinary 


36        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

trails  past  Collinson's  or  Skinner's,  which 
would  have  betrayed  his  vicinity.  But  re- 
cluses are  not  usually  accompanied  by  young 
daughters,  whose  relations  with  the  world, 
not  being  as  antagonistic,  would  make  them 
uncertain  companions.  Why  not  a  wife? 
His  presumption  of  the  extreme  youth  of 
the  face  he  had  seen  at  the  window  was 
after  all  only  based  upon  the  slipper  he  had 
found.  And  if  a  wife,  whose  absolute  ac- 
ceptance of  such  confined  seclusion  might 
be  equally  uncertain,  why  not  somebody 
else's  wife  ?  Here  was  a  reason  for  conceal- 
ment, and  the  end  of  an  episode,  not  un- 
known even  in  the  wilderness.  And  here 
was  the  work  of  the  Nemesis  who  had  over- 
taken them  in  their  guilty  contentment ! 
The  story,  even  to  its  moral,  was  complete. 
And  yet  it  did  not  entirely  satisfy  him,  so 
superior  is  the  absolutely  unknown  to  the 
most  elaborate  theory. 

His  attention  had  been  once  or  twice 
drawn  towards  the  crumbling  wall  of  out- 
crop, which  during  the  conflagration  must 
have  felt  the  full  force  of  the  fiery  blast 
that  had  swept  through  the  hollow  and  spent 
'its  fury  upon  it.  It  bore  evidence  of  the 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        37 

intense  heat  in  cracked  fissures  and  the 
crumbling  debris  that  lay  at  its  feet.  Key 
picked  up  some  of  the  still  warm  fragments, 
and  was  not  surprised  that  they  easily  broke 
in  a  gritty,  grayish  powder  in  his  hands.  In 
spite  of  his  preoccupation  with  the  human 
interest,  the  instinct  of  the  prospector  was 
still  strong  upon  him,  and  he  almost  me- 
chanically put  some  of  the  pieces  in  his 
pockets.  Then  after  another  careful  survey 
of  the  locality  for  any  further  record  of  its 
vanished  tenants,  he  returned  to  his  horse. 
Here  he  took  from  his  saddle-bags,  half  list- 
lessly, a  precious  phial  encased  in  wood,  and, 
opening  it,  poured  into  another  thick  glass 
vessel  part  of  a  smoking  fluid;  he  then 
crumbled  some  of  the  calcined  fragments 
into  the  glass,  and  watched  the  ebullition 
that  followed  with  mechanical  gravity. 
When  it  had  almost  ceased  he  drained  off 
the  contents  into  another  glass,  which  he  set 
down,  and  then  proceeded  to  pour  some 
water  from  his  drinking-flask  into  the  ordi- 
nary tin  cup  which  formed  part  of  his  culi- 
nary traveling-kit.  Into  this  he  put  three 
or  four  pinches  of  salt  from  his  provision 
store.  Then  dipping  his  fingers  into  the 


38        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

salt  and  water,  he  allowed  a  drop  to  fall  into 
the  glass.  A  white  cloud  instantly  gathered 
in  the  colorless  fluid,  and  then  fell  in  a  fine 
film  to  the  bottom  of  the  glass.  Key's  eyes 
concentrated  suddenly,  the  listless  look  left 
his  face.  His  fingers  trembled  lightly  as  he 
again  let  the  salt  water  fall  into  the  solu- 
tion, with  exactly  the  same  result !  Again 
and  again  he  repeated  it,  until  the  bottom 
of  the  glass  was  quite  gray  with  the  fallen 
precipitate.  And  his  own  face  grew  as 
gray. 

His  hand  trembled  no  longer  as  he  care- 
fully poured  off  the  solution  so  as  not  to 
disturb  the  precipitate  at  the  bottom.  Then 
he  drew  out  his  knife,  scooped  a  little  of  the 
gray  sediment  upon  its  point,  and  emptying 
his  tin  cup,  turned  it  upside  down  upon  his 
knee,  placed  the  sediment  upon  it,  and  be- 
gan to  spread  it  over  the  dull  surface  of  its 
bottom  with  his  knife.  He  had  intended  to 
rub  it  briskly  with  his  knife  blade.  But  in 
the  very  action  of  spreading  it,  the  first 
stroke  of  his  knife  left  upon  the  sediment 
and  the  cup  the  luminous  streak  of  bur- 
nished silver ! 

He  stood  up  and  drew  a  long  breath  to 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        39 

still  the  beatings  of  his  heart.  Then  he 
rapidly  re-climbed  the  rock,  and  passed  over 
the  ruins  again,  this  time  plunging  hurriedly 
through,  and  kicking  aside  the  charred 
heaps  without  a  thought  of  what  they  had 
contained.  Key  was  not  an  unfeeling  man, 
he  was  not  an  unrefined  one :  he  was  a  gen- 
tleman by  instinct,  and  had  an  intuitive 
sympathy  for  others ;  but  in  that  instant  his 
whole  mind  was  concentrated  upon  the  cal- 
cined outcrop !  And  his  first  impulse  was 
to  see  if  it  bore  any  evidence  of  previous 
examination,  prospecting,  or  working  by  its 
suddenly  evicted  neighbors  and  owners. 
There  was  none :  they  had  evidently  not 
known  it.  Nor  was  there  any  reason  to 
suppose  that  they  would  ever  return  to  their 
hidden  home,  now  devastated  and  laid  bare 
to  the  open  sunlight  and  open  trail.  They 
were  already  far  away ;  their  guilty  per- 
sonal secret  would  keep  them  from  revisit- 
ing it.  An  immense  feeling  of  relief  came 
over  the  soul  of  this  moral  romancer ;  a 
momentary  recognition  of  the  Most  High 
in  this  perfect  poetical  retribution.  He  ran 
back  quickly  to  his  saddle-bags,  drew  out 
one  or  two  carefully  written,  formal  notices 


40        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

of  preemption  and  claim,  which  he  and  his 
former  companions  had  carried  in  their  brief 
partnership,  erased  their  signatures  and  left 
only  his  own  name,  with  another  grateful 
sense  of  Divine  interference,  as  he  thought 
of  them  speeding  far  away  in  the  distance, 
and  returned  to  the  ruins.  With  uncon- 
scious irony,  he  selected  a  charred  post  from 
the  embers,  stuck  it  in  the  ground  a  few 
feet  from  the  debris  of  outcrop,  and  finally 
affixed  his  "  Notice."  Then,  with  a  con- 
scientiousness born  possibly  of  his  new 
religious  convictions,  he  dislodged  with  his 
pickaxe  enough  of  the  brittle  outcrop  to 
constitute  that  presumption  of  "  actual 
work "  upon  the  claim  which  was  legally 
required  for  its  maintenance,  and  returned 
to  his  horse.  In  replacing  his  things  in 
his  saddle-bags  he  came  upon  the  slipper, 
and  for  an  instant  so  complete  was  his  pre- 
occupation in  his  later  discovery,  that  he 
was  about  to  throw  it  away  as  useless  im- 
pedimenta, until  it  occurred  to  him,  albeit 
vaguely,  that  it  might  be  of  service  to  him 
in  its  connection  with  that  discovery,  in 
the  way  of  ref uting  possible  false  claimants. 
vHe  was  not  aware  of  any  faithlessness  to  his 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        41 

momentary  romance,  any  more  than  he  was 
conscious  of  any  disloyalty  to  his  old  com- 
panions,  in  his  gratification  that  his  good 
fortune  had  come  to  him  alone.  This  sin- 
gular selection  was  a  common  experience 
of  prospecting.  And  there  was  something 
about  the  magnitude  of  his  discovery  that 
seemed  to  point  to  an  individual  achieve- 
ment. He  had  made  a  rough  calculation  of 
the  richness  of  the  lode  from  the  quantity  of 
precipitate  in  his  rude  experiment ;  he  had 
estimated  its  length,  breadth,  and  thickness 
from  his  slight  knowledge  of  geology  and 
the  theories  then  ripe  ;  and  the  yield  would 
be  colossal !  Of  course,  he  would  require 
capital  to  work  it,  he  would  have  to  "  let 
in  "  others  to  his  scheme  and  his  prosperity ; 
but  the  control  of  it  would  always  be  his 
own. 

Then  he  suddenly  started  as  he  had  never 
in  his  life  before  started  at  the  foot  of  man ! 
For  there  .was  a  footfall  in  the  charred  brush; 
and  not  twenty  yards  from  him  stood  Collin- 
son,  who  had  just  dismounted  from  a  mule. 
The  blood  rushed  to  Key's  pale  face. 

"  Prospectin'  agin  ?  "  said  the  proprietor 
of  the  mill,  with  his  weary  smile. 


42        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  No,"  said  Key  quickly,  "  only  straight- 
ening my  pack."  The  blood  deepened  in 
his  cheek  at  his  instinctive  lie.  Had  he 
carefully  thought  it  out  before,  he  would 
have  welcomed  Collinson,  and  told  him  all. 
But  now  a  quick,  uneasy  suspicion  flashed 
upon  him.  Perhaps  his  late  host  had  lied, 
and  knew  of  the  existence  of  the  hidden 
house.  Perhaps  —  he  had  spoken  of  some 
"  silvery  rock  "  the  night  before  —  he  even 
knew  something  of  the  lode  itself.  He  turned 
upon  him  with  an  aggressive  face.  But  Col- 
linson's  next  words  dissipated  the  thought. 

"  I  'm  glad  I  found  ye,  anyhow,"  he 
said.  "  Ye  see,  arter  you  left,  I  saw  ye  turn 
off  the  trail  and  make  for  the  burning  woods 
instead  o'  goin'  round.  I  sez  to  myself, '  That 
fellow  is  making  straight  for  Skinner's. 
He 's  sorter  worried  about  me  and  that 
empty  pork  bar'l,'  —  I  had  n't  oughter  spoke 
that  away  afore  you  boys,  anyhow,  — '  and 
he 's  takin'  risks  to  help  me.'  So  I  reckoned 
I  'd  throw  my  leg  over  Jenny  here,  and  look 
arter  ye  —  and  go  over  to  Skinner's  myself 
—  and  vote." 

"  Certainly,"  said  Key  with  cheerful 
alacrity,  and  the  one  thought  of  getting  Col- 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        43 

linson  away ;  "  we  '11  go  together,  and  we  '11 
see  that  that  pork  barrel  is  filled ! "  He 
glowed  quite  honestly  with  this  sudden  idea 
of  remembering  Collinson  through  his  good 
fortune.  "  Let 's  get  on  quickly,  for  we 
may  find  the  fire  between  us  on  the  outer 
trail."  He  hastily  mounted  his  horse. 

"  Then  you  did  n't  take  this  as  a  short 
cut,"  said  Collinson,  with  dull  perseverance 
in  his  idea.  "  Why  not  ?  It  looks  all  clear 


"  Yes,"  said  Key  hurriedly,  "  but  it 's 
been  only  a  leap  of  the  fire,  it 's  still  raging 
round  the  bend.  We  must  go  back  to 
the  cross-trail."  His  face  was  still  flushing 
with  his  very  equivocating,  and  his  anxiety 
to  get  his  companion  away.  Only  a  few 
steps  further  might  bring  Collinson  before 
the  ruins  and  the  "  Notice,"  and  that  discov- 
ery must  not  be  made  by  him  until  Key's 
plans  were  perfected.  A  sudden  aversion  to 
the  man  he  had  a  moment  before  wished  to 
reward  began  to  take  possession  of  him. 
"  Come  on,"  he  added  almost  roughly. 

But  to  his  surprise,  Collinson  yielded  with 
his  usual  grim  patience,  and  even  a  slight 
look  of  sympathy  with  his  friend's  annoy- 


44        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

ance.  "  I  reckon  you  're  right,  and  mebbee 
you're  in  a  hurry  to  get  to  Skinner's  all 
along  o'  my  business,  I  ought  n't  hev  told 
you  boys  what  I  did."  As  they  rode  rapidly 
away  he  took  occasion  to  add,  when  Key  had 
reined  in  slightly,  with  a  feeling  of  relief  at 
being  out  of  the  hollow,  "I  was  thinkin', 
too,  of  what  you'd  asked  about  any  one 
livin'  here  unbeknownst  to  me." 

"  Well,"  said  Key,  with  a  new  nervous- 
ness. 

"  Well ;  I  only  had  an  idea  o'  proposin' 
that  you  and  me  just  took  a  look  around 
that  holler  whar  you  thought  you  saw 
suthin' !  "  said  Collinson  tentatively. 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Key  hurriedly.  "  We 
really  saw  nothing  — •  it  was  all  a  fancy ;  and 
Uncle  Dick  was  joking  me  because  I  said  I 
thought  I  saw  a  woman's  face,"  he  added 
with  a  forced  laugh. 

Collinson  glanced  at  him,  half  sadly. 
"  Oh !  You  were  only  funnin',  then.  I 
oughter  guessed  that.  I  oughter  have 
knowed  it  from  Uncle  Dick's  talk ! "  They 
rode  for  some  moments  in  silence ;  Key  pre- 
occupied and  feverish,  and  eager  only  to 
reach  Skinner's.  Skinner  was  not  only 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        45 

postmaster  but  "registrar"  of  the  district, 
and  the  new  discoverer  did  not  feel  entirely 
safe  until  he  had  put  his  formal  notification 
and  claims  "  on  record."  This  was  no  pub- 
lication of  his  actual  secret,  nor  any  indica- 
tion of  success,  but  was  only  a  record  that 
would  in  all  probability  remain  unnoticed 
and  unchallenged  amidst  the  many  other 
hopeful  dreams  of  sanguine  prospectors. 
But  he  was  suddenly  startled  from  his  pre- 
occupation. 

"Ye  said  ye  war  straightenin'  up  yer 
pack  just  now,"  said  Collinson  slowly. 

"  Yes !  "  said  Key  almost  angrily,  "  and  I 


"  Ye  did  n't  stop  to  straighten  it  up  down 
at  the  forks  of  the  trail,  did  ye  ?  " 

"  I  may  have,"  said  Key  nervously.  "  But 
why  ?  " 

"  Ye  won't  mind  my  axin'  ye  another 
question,  will  ye  ?  Ye  ain't  carryin'  round 
with  ye  no  woman's  shoe  ?  " 

Key  felt  the  blood  drop  from  his  cheeks. 
"  What  do  you  mean  ? "  he  stammered, 
scarcely  daring  to  lift  his  conscious  eyelids 
to  his  companion's  glance.  But  when  he 
did  so  he  was  amazed  to  find  that  Collin- 


46        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

son's  face  was  almost  as  much  disturbed  as 
his  own. 

"  I  know  it  ain't  the  square  thing  to  ask 
ye,  but  this  is  how  it  is,"  said  Collinson  hesi- 
tatingly. "Ye  see  just  down  by  the  fork  of 
the  trail  where  you  came  I  picked  up  a 
woman's  shoe.  It  sorter  got  me !  For  I 
sez  to  myself,  '  Thar  ain't  no  one  bin  by  my 
shanty,  comin'  or  goin',  for  weeks  but  you 
boys,  and  that  shoe,  from  the  looks  of  it, 
ain't  bin  there  as  many  hours.'  I  knew 
there  was  n't  any  wimin  hereabouts.  I  reck- 
oned it  could  n't  hev  bin  dropped  by  Uncle 
Dick  or  that  other  man,  for  you  would  have 
seen  it  on  the  road,  So  I  allowed  it  might 
have  bin  you.  And  yer  it  is."  He  slowly 
drew  from  his  pocket  —  what  Key  was  fully 
prepared  to  see  —  the  mate  of  the  slipper 
Key  had  in  his  saddle-bags  !  The  fair  fugi- 
tive had  evidently  lost  them  both. 

But  Key  was  better  prepared  now  (per- 
haps this  kind  of  dissimulation  is  progres- 
sive), and  quickly  alive  to  the  necessity  of 
throwing  Collinson  off  this  unexpected  scent. 
And  his  companion's  own  suggestion  was 
right  to  his  hand,  and,  as  it  seemed,  again 
quite  providential!  He  laughed,  with  a 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        47 

quick  color,  which,  however,  appeared  to 
help  his  lie,  as  he  replied  half  hysterically, 
"  You  're  right,  old  man,  I  own  up,  it 's 
mine  !  It 's  d — d  silly,  I  know  —  but  then, 
we  're  all  fools  where  women  are  concerned 
—  and  I  would  n't  have  lost  that  slipper  for 
a  mint  of  money." 

He  held  out  his  hand  gayly,  but  Collin- 
son  retained  the  slipper  while  he  gravely 
examined  it. 

"  You  would  n't  mind  telling  me  where 
you  mought  hev  got  that?  "  he  said  medi- 
tatively. 

"Of  course  I  should  mind,"  said  Key 
with  a  well-affected  mingling  of  mirth  and 
indignation.  "  What  are  you  thinking  of, 
you  old  rascal?  What  do  you  take  me 
for?" 

But  Collinson  did  not  laugh.  "  You 
would  n't  mind  givin'  me  the  size  and  shape 
and  general  heft  of  her  as  wore  that  shoe  ?  " 

"  Most  decidedly  I  should  do  nothing 
of  the  kind !  "  said  Key  half  impatiently. 
"  Enough,  that  it  was  given  to  me  by  a  very 
pretty  girl.  There!  that's  all  you  will 
know." 

"  Given  to  you  ?  "  said  Collinson,  lifting 


48        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  Yes,"  returned  Key  sharply. 

Collinson  handed  him  the  slipper  gravely. 
"  I  only  asked  you,"  he  said  slowly,  but 
with  a  certain  quiet  dignity  which  Key  had 
never  before  seen  in  his  face,  "  because  thar 
was  suthin'  about  the  size,  and  shape,  and 
fillin'  out  o'  that  shoe  that  kinder  reminded 
me  of  some  'un  ;  but  that  some  'un  —  her  as 
mought  hev  stood  up  in  that  shoe  —  ain't  o' 
that  kind  as  would  ever  stand  in  the  shoes 
of  her  as  you  know  at  all."  The  rebuke,  if 
such  were  intended,  lay  quite  as  much  in  the 
utter  ignoring  of  Key's  airy  gallantry  and 
levity  as  in  any  conscious  slur  upon  the  fair 
fame  of  his  invented  Dulcinea.  Yet  Key 
oddly  felt  a  strong  inclination  to  resent  the 
aspersion  as  well  as  Collinson's  gratuitous 
morality ;  and  with  a  mean  recollection  of 
Uncle  Dick's  last  evening's  scandalous  gos- 
sip, he  said  sarcastically,  "  And,  of  course, 
that  some  one  you  were  thinking  of  was  your 
lawful  wife." 

"  It  war !  "  said  Collinson  gravely. 

Perhaps  it  was  something  in  Collinson's 
manner,  or  his  own  preoccupation^  but  he 
did  not  pursue  the  subject,  and  the  conver- 
sation lagged.  They  were  nearing,  too,  the 


tN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        49 

outer  edge  of  the  present  conflagration,  and 
the  smoke,  lying  low  in  the  unburnt  woods, 
or  creeping  like  an  actual  exhalation  of  the 
soil,  blinded  them  so  that  at  times  they  lost 
the  trail  completely.  At  other  times,  from 
the  intense  heat,  it  seemed  as  if  they  were 
momentarily  impinging  upon  the  burning 
area,  or  were  being  caught  in  a  closing  circle. 
It  was  remarkable  that  with  his  sudden  ac- 
cession of  fortune  Key  seemed  to  lose  his 
usual  frank  and  careless  fearlessness,  and 
impatiently  questioned  his  companion's  wood- 
craft. There  were  intervals  when  he  re- 
gretted his  haste  to  reach  Skinner's  by  this 
shorter  cut,  and  began  to  bitterly  attribute 
it  to  his  desire  to  serve  Collinson.  Ah,  yes ! 
it  would  be  fine  indeed,  if  just  as  he  were 
about  to  clutch  the  prize  he  should  be  sacri- 
ficed through  the  ignorance  and  stupidity  of 
this  heavy-handed  moralist  at  his  side !  But 
it  was  not  until,  through  that  moralist's 
guidance,  they  climbed  a  steep  acclivity  to  a 
second  ridge,  and  were  comparatively  safe, 
that  he  began  to  feel  ashamed  of  his  surly 
silence  or  surlier  interruptions.  And  Col- 
linson, either  through  his  unconquerable 
patience,  or  possibly  in  a  fit  of  his  usual 


50         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

uxorious  abstraction,  appeared  to  take  no 
notice  of  it. 

A  sloping  table-land  of  weather-beaten 
boulders  now  effectually  separated  them  from 
the  fire  on  the  lower  ridge.  They  presently 
began  to  descend  on  the  further  side  of  the 
crest,  and  at  last  dropped  upon  a  wagon- 
road,  and  the  first  track  of  wheels  that  Key 
had  seen  for  a  fortnight.  Rude  as  it  was,  it 
seemed  to  him  the  highway  to  fortune,  for  he 
knew  that  it  passed  Skinner's  and  then  joined 
the  great  stage-road  to  Marysville,  —  now  his 
ultimate  destination.  A  few  rods  further  on 
they  came  in  view  of  Skinner's,  lying  like 
a  dingy  forgotten  winter  snowdrift  on  the 
mountain  shelf. 

It  contained  a  post-office,  tavern,  black- 
smith's shop,  "  general  store,"  and  express- 
office,  scarcely  a  dozen  buildings  in  all,  but 
all  differing  from  Collinson's  Mill  in  some 
vague  suggestion  of  vitality,  as  if  the  daily 
regular  pulse  of  civilization  still  beat,  albeit 
languidly,  in  that  remote  extremity.  There 
was  anticipation  and  accomplishment  twice 
a  day ;  and  as  Key  and  Collinson  rode  up 
to  the  express-office,  the  express-wagon  was 
standing  before  the  door  ready  to  start  to 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         51 

meet  the  stagecoach  at  the  cross-roads  three 
miles  away.  This  again  seemed  a  special 
providence  to  Key.  He  had  a  brief  official 
communication  with  Skinner  as  registrar, 
and  duly  recorded  his  claim ;  he  had  a  hasty 
and  confidential  aside  with  Skinner  as  gen- 
eral storekeeper,  and  such  was  the  uncon- 
scious magnetism  developed  by  this  embryo 
millionaire  that  Skinner  extended  the  neces- 
sary credit  to  Collinson  on  Key's  word  alone. 
That  done,  he  rejoined  Collinson  in  high 
spirits  with  the  news,  adding  cheerfully, 
"  And  I  dare  say,  if  you  want  any  further 
advances  Skinner  will  give  them  to  you  on 
Parker's  draft." 

"  You  mean  that  bit  o'  paper  that  chap 
left,"  said  Collinson  gravely. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  tore  it  up." 

"  You  tore  it  up  ?  "  ejaculated  Key. 

"  You  hear  me  ?     Yes  !  "  said  Collinson. 

Key  stared  at  him.  Surely  it  was  again 
providential  that  he  had  not  intrusted  his 
secret  to  this  utterly  ignorant  and  prejudiced 
man !  The  slight  twinges  of  conscience  that 
his  lie  about  the  slippers  had  caused  him 
disappeared  at  once.  He  could  not  have 
Bret  Harte  11— V.  6 


52        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

trusted  him  even  in  that ;  it  would  have  been 
like  this  stupid  fanatic  to  have  prevented 
Key's  preemption  of  that  claim,  until  he, 
Collinson,  had  satisfied  himself  of  the  where- 
abouts of  the  missing  proprietor.  Was  he 
quite  sure  that  Collinson  would  not  revisit 
the  spot  when  he  had  gone  ?  But  he  was 
ready  for  the  emergency. 

He  had  intended  to  leave  his  horse  with 
Skinner  as  security  for  Collinson's  provisions, 
but  Skinner's  liberality  had  made  this  un- 
necessary, and  he  now  offered  it  to  Collinson 
to  use  and  keep  for  him  until  called  for. 
This  would  enable  his  companion  to  "  pack" 
his  goods  on  the  mule,  and  oblige  him  to 
return  to  the  mill  by  the  wagon-road  and 
"  outside  trail,"  as  more  commodious  for  the 
two  animals. 

"  Ye  ain't  afeared  o'  the  road  agents  ? " 
suggested  a  bystander ;  "  they  just  swarm  on 
Galloper's  Ridge,  and  they  '  held  up  '  the 
down  stage  only  last  week." 

"They're  not  so  lively  since  the  deputy- 
sheriff  's  got  a  new  idea  about  them,  and 
has  been  lying  low  in  the  brush  near  Bald 
Top,"  returned  Skinner.  "  Anyhow,  they 
don't  stop  teams  nor  '  packs  '  unless  there 's 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         53 

a  chance  of  their  getting  some  fancy  horse- 
flesh by  it ;  and  I  reckon  thai'  ain't  much  to 
tempt  them  thar,"  he  added,  with  a  satirical 
side  glance  at  his  customer's  cattle.  But 
Key  was  already  standing  in  the  express- 
wagon,  giving  a  farewell  shake  to  his  pa- 
tient companion's  hand,  and  this  ingenuous 
pleasantry  passed  unnoticed.  Nevertheless, 
as  the  express-wagon  rolled  away,  his  active 
fancy  began  to  consider  this  new  danger 
that  might  threaten  the  hidden  wealth  of 
his  claim.  But  he  reflected  that  for  a  time, 
at  least,  only  the  crude  ore  would  be  taken 
out  and  shipped  to  Marysville  in  a  shape 
that  offered  no  profit  to  the  highwaymen. 
Had  it  been  a  gold  mine !  —  but  here  again 
was  the  interposition  of  Providence ! 

A  week  later  Preble  Key  returned  to 
Skinner's  with  a  foreman  and  ten  men,  and 
an  unlimited  credit  to  draw  upon  at  Marys- 
ville !  Expeditions  of  this  kind  created  no 
surprise  at  Skinner's.  Parties  had  before 
this  entered  the  wilderness  gayly,  none  knew 
where  or  what  for;  the  sedate  and  silent 
woods  had  kept  their  secret  while  there ;  they 
had  evaporated,  none  knew  when  or  where 
—  often,  alas!  with  an  unpaid  account  at 


54         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Skinner's.  Consequently,  there  was  nothing 
in  Key's  party  to  challenge  curiosity.  In 
another  week  a  rambling,  one-storied  shed 
of  pine  logs  occupied  the  site  of  the  mysteri- 
ous ruinSj  and  contained  the  party ;  in  two 
weeks  excavations  had  been  made,  and  the 
whole  face  of  the  outcrop  was  exposed ;  in 
three  weeks  every  vestige  of  former  tenancy 
which  the  fire  had  not  consumed  was  trampled 
out  by  the  alien  feet  of  these  toilers  of  the 
"Sylvan  Silver  Hollow  Company."  None 
of  Key's  former  companions  would  have 
recognized  the  hollow  in  its  blackened  level- 
ing and  rocky  foundation;  even  Collinson 
would  not  have  remembered  this  stripped 
and  splintered  rock,  with  its  heaps  of  fresh 
debris,  as  the  place  where  he  had  overtaken 
Key.  And  Key  himself  had  forgotten,  in 
his  triumph,  everything  but  the  chance  ex- 
periment that  had  led  to  his  success. 

Perhaps  it  was  well,  therefore,  that  one 
night,  when  the  darkness  had  mercifully 
fallen  upon  this  scene  of  sylvan  desolation, 
and  its  still  more  incongruous  and  unsavory 
human  restoration,  and  the  low  murmur  of 
the  pines  occasionally  swelled  up  from  the 
unscathed  mountain-side,  a  loud  shout  and 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         55 

the  trampling  of  horses'  feet  awoke  the  dwell- 
ers in  the  shanty.  Springing  to  their  feet, 
they  hurriedly  seized  their  weapons  and 
rushed  out,  only  to  be  confronted  by  a  dark, 
motionless  ring  of  horsemen,  two  flaming 
torches  of  pine  knots,  and  a  low  but  distinct 
voice  of  authority.  In  their  excitement, 
half-awakened  suspicion,  and  confusion,  they 
were  affected  by  its  note  of  calm  preparation 
and  conscious  power. 

"  Drop  those  guns  —  hold  up  your  hands ! 
We  've  got  every  man  of  you  covered." 

Key  was  no  coward ;  the  men,  though 
flustered,  were  not  cravens :  but  they  obeyed. 

"  Trot  out  your  leader !  Let  him  stand 
out  there,  clear,  beside  that  torch !  " 

One  of  the  gleaming  pine  knots  disengaged 
itself  from  the  dark  circle  and  moved  to  the 
centre,  as  Preble  Key,  cool  and  confident, 
stepped  beside  it. 

"  That  will  do,"  said  the  immutable  voice. 
"  Now,  we  want  Jack  Riggs,  Sydney  Jack, 
French  Pete,  and  One-eyed  Charley." 

A  vivid  reminiscence  of  the  former  night 
scene  in  the  hollow  —  of  his  own  and  his 
companions'  voices  raised  in  the  darkness  — 
flashed  across  Key.  With  an  instinctive 


56         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

premonition  that  this  invasion  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  the  former  tenant,  he  said 
calmly :  — 

"  Who  wants  them  ?  " 
"  The  State  of  California,"  said  the  voice. 
"  The    State   of    California   must    look 
further,"  returned  Key  in  his  old  pleasant 
voice ;  "  there  are  no  such  names  among  my 
party." 

"  Who  are  you?  " 

"  The  manager  of  the  '  Sylvan  Silver 
Hollow  Company,'  and  these  are  my  work- 
men." 

There  was  a  hurried  movement,  and  the 
sound  of  whispering  in  the  hitherto  dark  and 
silent  circle,  and  then  the  voice  rose  again  : 
"  You  have  the  papers  to  prove  that  ?  " 
"  Yes,  in  the  cabin.     And  you  ?  " 
"  I  've  a  warrant  to  the  sheriff  of  Sierra." 
There  was  a  pause,  and  the  voice  went  on 
less  confidently :  — 

"  How  long  have  you  been  here?  " 
"  Three  weeks.     I  came  here  the  day  of 
the  fire  and  took  up  this  claim." 
"  There  was  no  other  house  here  ?  " 
"  There  were  ruins,  —  you  can   see  them 
still.     It  may  have  been  a  burnt-up  cabin." 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        57 

The  voice  disengaged  itself  from  the  vague 
background  and  came  slowly  forwards :  — 

"It  was  a  den  of  thieves.  It  was  the 
hiding-place  of  Jack  Riggs  and  his  gang  of 
road  agents.  I  've  been  hunting  this  spot 
for  three  weeks.  And  now  the  whole  thing  's 
up!" 

There  was  a  laugh  from  Key's  men,  but 
it  was  checked  as  the  owner  of  the  voice 
slowly  ranged  up  beside  the  burning  torch 
and  they  saw  his  face.  It  was  dark  and  set 
with  the  defeat  of  a  brave  man. 

"  Won't  you  come  in  and  take  some- 
thing ?  "  said  Key  kindly. 

"  No.  It 's  enough  fool  work  for  me  to 
have  routed  ye  out  already.  But  I  suppose 
it's  all  in  my  d — d  day's  work!  Good- 
night !  Forward  there  !  Get !  " 

The  two  torches  danced  forwards,  with 
the  trailing  off  of  vague  shadows  in  dim  pro- 
cession ;  there  was  a  clatter  over  the  rocks 
and  they  were  gone.  Then,  as  Preble  Key 
gazed  after  them,  he  felt  that  with  them  had 
passed  the  only  shadow  that  lay  upon  his 
great  fortune  ;  and  with  the  last  tenant  of 
the  hollow  a  proscribed  outlaw  and  fugitive, 
he  was  henceforth  forever  safe  in  his  claim 


58         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

and  his  discovery.  And  yet,  oddly  enough, 
at  that  moment,  as  he  turned  away,  for  the 
first  time  in  three  weeks  there  passed  be- 
fore his  fancy  with  a  stirring  of  reproach 
a  vision  of  the  face  that  he  had  seen  at  the 
window. 


CHAPTER  in. 

OF  the  great  discovery  in  Sylvan  Silver 
Hollow  it  would  seem  that  Collinson  as  yet 
knew  nothing.  In  spite  of  Key's  fears  that 
he  might  stray  there  on  his  return  from 
Skinner's,  he  did  not,  nor  did  he  afterwards 
revisit  the  locality.  Neither  the  news  of  the 
registry  of  the  claim  nor  the  arrival  of  Key's 
workmen  ever  reached  him.  The  few  trav- 
elers who  passed  his  mill  came  from  the  val- 
ley to  crosi,  the  Divide  on  their  way  to  Skin- 
ner's, and  returned  by  the  longer  but  easier 
detour  of  the  stage -road  over  Galloper's 
Ridge.  He  had  no  chance  to  participate  in 
the  prosperity  that  flowed  from  the  opening 
of  the  mine,  which  plentifully  besprinkled 
Skinner's  settlement ;  he  was  too  far  away 
to  profit  even  by  the  chance  custom  of  Key's 
Sabbath  wandering  workmen.  His  isolation 
from  civilization  (for  those  who  came  to 
him  from  the  valley  were  rude  Western  emi- 
grants like  himself)  remained  undisturbed. 


60         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

The  return  of  the  prospecting  party  to  his 
humble  hospitality  that  night  had  been  an 
exceptional  case ;  in  his  characteristic  sim- 
plicity he  did  not  dream  that  it  was  because 
they  had  nowhere  else  to  go  in  their  pen- 
niless condition.  It  was  an  incident  to  be 
pleasantly  remembered,  but  whose  nonrecur- 
rence  did  not  disturb  his  infinite  patience. 
His  pork  barrel  and  flour  sack  had  been  re- 
plenished for  other  travelers  ;  his  own  wants 
were  few. 

It  was  a  day  or  two  after  the  midnight 
visit  of  the  sheriff  to  Silver  Hollow  that 
Key  galloped  down  the  steep  grade  to 
Collinson's.  He  was  amused,  albeit,  in  his 
new  importance,  a  little  aggrieved  also,  to 
find  that  Collinson  had  as  usual  confounded 
his  descent  with  that  of  the  generally  de- 
tached boulder,  and  that  he  was  obliged  to 
add  his  voice  to  the  general  uproar.  This 
brought  Collinson  to  his  door. 

"  I  've  had  your  hoss  hobbled  out  among 
the  chickweed  and  clover  in  the  green  pas- 
ture back  o'  the  mill,  and  he  's  picked  up 
that  much  that  he 's  lookin'  fat  and  sassy," 
he  said  quietly,  beginning  to  mechanically 
unstrap  Key's  bridle,  even  while  his  guest 


72V  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         61 

was  in  the  act  of  dismounting.  "  His  back 's 
quite  healed  up." 

Key  could  not  restrain  a  shrug  of  impa- 
tience. It  was  three  weeks  since  they  had 
met,  —  three  weeks  crammed  with  excite- 
ment, energy,  achievement,  and  fortune  to 
Key ;  and  yet  this  place  and  this  man  were 
as  stupidly  unchanged  as  when  he  had  left 
them.  A  momentary  fancy  that  this  was 
the  reality,  that  he  himself  was  only  awak- 
ening from  some  delusive  dream,  came  over 
him.  But  Collinson's  next  words  were 
practical. 

"  I  reckoned  that  maybe  you  'd  write 
from  Marysville  to  Skinner  to  send  for  the 
hoss,  and  forward  him  to  ye,  for  I  never 
kalkilated  you  'd  come  back." 

It  was  quite  plain  from  this  that  Collin- 
son  had  heard  nothing.  But  it  was  also 
awkward,  as  Key  would  now  have  to  tell  the 
whole  story,  and  reveal  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  really  experimenting  when  Collinson 
overtook  him  in  the  hollow.  He  evaded  this 
by  post-dating  his  discovery  of  the  richness 
of  the  ore  until  he  had  reached  Marysville 
But  he  found  some  difficulty  in  recount- 
nig  his  good  fortune :  he  was  naturally  no 


62         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

boaster,  he  had  no  desire  to  impress  Collin- 
son  with  his  penetration,  nor  the  undaunted 
energy  he  had  displayed  in  getting  up  his 
company  and  opening  the  mine,  so  that  he 
was  actually  embarrassed  by  his  own  under- 
statement ;  and  under  the  grave,  patient  eyes 
of  his  companion,  told  his  story  at  best 
lamely.  Collinson's  face  betrayed  neither 
profound  interest  nor  the  slightest  resent- 
ment. When  Key  had  ended  his  awkward 
recital,  Collinson  said  slowly :  — 

"  Then  Uncle  Dick  and  that  other  Parker 
feller  ain't  got  no  show  in  this  yer  find." 

"  No,"  said  Key  quickly.  "  Don't  you 
remember  we  broke  up  our  partnership 
that  morning  and  went  off  our  own  ways. 
You  don't  suppose,"  he  added  with  a  forced 
half -laugh,  "  that  if  Uncle  Dick  or  Parker 
had  struck  a  lead  after  they  left  me,  they  'd 
have  put  me  in  it  ?  " 

"Would  n't  they?"  asked  Collinson 
gravely. 

"Of  course  not."  He  laughed  a  little 
more  naturally,  but  presently  added,  with 
an  uneasy  smile,  "  What  makes  you  think 
they  would  ?  " 

"  Nuthin' !  "  said  Collinson  promptly. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         63 

Nevertheless,  when  they  were  seated  be- 
fore the  fire,  with  glasses  in  their  hands, 
Collinson  returned  patiently  to  the  subject : 

"  You  wuz  saying  they  went  their  way, 
and  you  went  yours.  But  your  way  was 
back  on  the  old  way  that  you  'd  all  gone 
together." 

But  Key  felt  himself  on  firmer  ground 
here,  and  answered  deliberately  and  truth- 
fully, "Yes,  but  I  only  went  back  to  the 
hollow  to  satisfy  myself  if  there  really  was 
any  house  there,  and  if  there  was,  to  warn 
the  occupants  of  the  approaching  fire." 

"  And  there  was  a  house  there,"  said  Col- 
linson thoughtfully. 

"  Only  the  ruins."  He  stopped  and 
flushed  quickly,  for  he  remembered  that  he 
had  denied  its  existence  at  their  former 
meeting.  "  That  is,"  he  went  on  hurriedly, 
"I  found  out  from  the  sheriff,  you  know, 
that  there  had  been  a  house  there.  But," 
he  added,  reverting  to  his  stronger  position, 
"  nay  going  back  there  was  an  accident,  and 
my  picking  up  the  outcrop  was  an  accident, 
and  had  no  more  to  do  with  our  partner- 
ship prospecting  than  you  had.  In  fact," 
he  said,  with  a  reassuring  laugh,  "  you  'd 


64         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

have  had  a  better  right  to  share  in  my  claim, 
coming  there  as  you  did  at  that  moment, 
than  they.  Why,  if  I  'd  have  known  what 
the  thing  was  worth,  I  might  have  put  you 
in  —  only  it  wanted  capital  and  some  expe- 
rience." He  was  glad  that  he  had  pitched 
upon  that  excuse  (it  had  only  just  occurred 
to  him),  and  glanced  affably  at  Collinson. 
But  that  gentleman  said  soberly :  — 

"  No,  you  would  n't  nuther." 

"  Why  not?"  said  Key  half  angrily. 

Collinson  paused.  After  a  moment  he 
said,  "  'Cos  I  would  n't  hev  took  anything 
outer  thet  place." 

Key  felt  relieved.  From  what  he  knew 
of  Collinson's  vagaries  he  believed  him.  He 
was  wise  in  not  admitting  him  to  his  con- 
fidences at  the  beginning ;  he  might  have 
thought  it  his  duty  to  tell  others. 

"  I  'm  not  so  particular,"  he  returned 
laughingly,  "  but  the  silver  in  that  hole  was 
never  touched,  nor  I  dare  say  even  imagined 
by  mortal  man  before.  However,  there  is 
something  else  about  the  hollow  that  I  want 
to  tell  you.  You  remember  the  slipper  that 
you  picked  up  ?  " 

«  Yes." 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         65 

"  Well,  I  lied  to  you  about  that ;  I  never 
dropped  it.  On  the  contrary,  I  had  picked 
up  the  mate  of  it  very  near  where  you  found 
yours,  and  I  wanted  to  know  to  whom  it  be- 
longed. For  I  don't  mind  telling  you  now, 
Collinson,  that  I  believe  there  was  a  woman 
in  that  house,  and  the  same  woman  whose 
face  I  saw  at  the  window.  You  remember 
how  the  boys  joked  me  about  it  —  well,  per- 
haps I  did  n't  care  that  you  should  laugh  at 
me  too,  but  I  've  had  a  sore  conscience  over 
my  lie,  for  I  remembered  that  you  seemed  to 
have  some  interest  in  the  matter  too,  and  I 
thought  that  maybe  I  might  have  thrown 
you  off  the  scent.  It  seemed  to  me  that  if 
you  had  any  idea  who  it  was,  we  might  now 
talk  the  matter  over  and  compare  notes.  I 
think  you  said  —  at  least,  I  gathered  the 
idea  from  a  remark  of  yours,"  he  added 
hastily,  as  he  remembered  that  the  sugges- 
tion was  his  own,  and  a  satirical  one  — 
"  that  it  reminded  you  of  your  wife's  slip- 
per. Of  course,  as  your  wife  is  dead,  that 
would  offer  no  clue,  and  can  only  be  a 
chance  resemblance,  unless  "  —  He  stopped. 

"  Have  you  got  'em  yet  ?  " 

"Yes,  both."  He  took  them  from  the 
pocket  of  his  riding- jacket. 


66        'IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

As  Collinson  received  them,  his  face  took 
upon  itself  an  even  graver  expression.  "  It 's 
mighty  cur'ous,"  he  said  reflectively,  "  but 
looking  at  the  two  of  'em  the  likeness  is 
more  fetchin'.  Ye  see,  my  wife  had  a 
straight  foot,  and  never  wore  reg'lar  rights 
and  lefts  like  other  women,  but  kinder 
changed  about ;  ye  see,  these  shoes  is  reg'lar 
rights  and  lefts,  but  never  was  worn  as 
sieh !  " 

"  There  may  be  other  women  as  peculiar," 
suggested  Key. 

"  There  must  be,"  said  Collinson  quietly. 

For  an  instant  Key  was  touched  with  the 
manly  security  of  the  reply,  for,  remember- 
ing Uncle  Dick's  scandal,  it  had  occurred  to 
him  that  the  unknown  tenant  of  the  robbers' 
den  might  be  Collinson's  wife.  He  was  glad 
to  be  relieved  on  that  point,  and  went  on 
more  confidently :  — 

"  So,  you  see,  this  woman  was  undoubtedly 
in  that  house  011  the  night  of  the  fire.  She 
escaped,  and  in  a  mighty  hurry  too,  for  she 
had  not  time  to  change  her  slippers  for 
shoes;  she  escaped  on  horseback,  for  that 
is  how  she  lost  them.  Now  what  was  she 
doing  there  with  those  rascals,  for  the  face  I 
saw  looked  as  innocent  as  a  saint's." 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         67 

"  Seemed  to  ye  sort  o'  contrairy,  jist  as  I 
reckoned  my  wife's  foot  would  have  looked 
in  a  slipper  that  you  said  was  giv  to  ye," 
suggested  Collinson  pointedly,  but  with  no 
implication  of  reproach  in  his  voice. 

"  Yes,"  said  Key  impatiently. 

"  I  've  read  yarns  afore  now  about  them 
Eyetalian  brigands  stealin'  women,"  said 
Collinson  reflectively,  "  but  that  ain't  Cal- 
ifornia road-agent  style.  Great  Scott!  if 
one  even  so  much  as  spoke  to  a  woman, 
they  'd  have  been  wiped  outer  the  State  long 
ago.  No !  the  woman  as  was  there  came 
there  to  stay  !  " 

As  Key's  face  did  not  seem  to  express 
either  assent  or  satisfaction  at  this  last 
statement,  Collinson,  after  a  glance  at  it, 
went  on  with  a  somewhat  gentler  gravity: 
"  I  see  wot 's  troublin'  you,  Mr.  Key ; 
you  've  bin  thinkin'  that  mebbee  that  poor 
woman  might  hev  bin  the  better  for  a  bit  o' 
that  fortin'  that  you  discovered  under  the 
very  spot  where  them  slippers  of  hers  had 
often  trod.  You  're  thinkin'  that  mebbee 
it  might  hev  turned  her  and  those  men  from 
their  evil  ways." 

Mr.   Key  had  been  thinking  nothing  of 


68         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

the  kind,  but  for  some  obscure  reason  the 
skeptical  jeer  that  had  risen  to  his  lips 
remained  unsaid.  He  rose  impatiently. 
"  ^ell,  there  seems  to  be  no  chance  of  dis- 
covering anything  now  ;  the  house  is  burnt, 
the  gang  dispersed,  and  she  has  probably 
gone  with  them."  He  paused,  and  then 
laid  three  or  four  large  gold  pieces  on  the 
table.  "  It 's  for  that  old  bill  of  our  party, 
Collinson,"  he  said.  "  I  '11  settle  and  collect 
from  each.  Some  time  when  you  come  over 
to  the  mine,  and  I  hope  you  '11  give  us  a 
call,  you  can  bring  the  horse.  Meanwhile 
you  can  use  him ;  you  '11  find  he 's  a  little 
quicker  than  the  mule.  How  is  business  ?  " 
he  added,  with  a  perfunctory  glance  around 
the  vacant  room  and  dusty  bar. 

"  Thar  ain't  much  passin'  this  way,"  said 
Collinson  with  equal  carelessness,  as  he 
gathered  up  the  money,  "  'cept  those  boys 
from  the  valley,  and  they  're  most  always 
strapped  when  they  come  here." 

Key  smiled  as  he  observed  that  Collinson 
offered  him  no  receipt,  and,  moreover,  as 
he  remembered  that  he  had  only  Collinson's 
word  for  the  destruction  of  Parker's  draft. 
But  he  merely  glanced  at  his  unconscious 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         69 

host,  and  said  nothing.  After  a  pause  he 
returned  in  a  lighter  tone :  "  I  suppose  you 
are  rather  out  of  the  world  here.  Indeed,  I 
had  an  idea  at  first  of  buying  out  your  mill, 
Collinson,  and  putting  in  steam  power  to  get 
out  timber  for  our  new  buildings,  but  you 
see  you  are  so  far  away  from  the  wagon- 
road,  that  we  could  n't  haul  the  timber  away. 
That  was  the  trouble,  or  I  'd  have  made  you 
a  fair  offer." 

"  I  don't  reckon  to  ever  sell  the  mill," 
said  Collinson  simply.  Then  observing  the 
look  of  suspicion  in  his  companion's  face,  he 
added  gravely,  "You  see,  I  rigged  up  the 
whole  thing  when  I  expected  my  wife  out 
from  the  States,  and  I  calkilate  to  keep  it 
in  memory  of  her." 

Key  slightly  lifted  his  brows.  "  But  you 
never  told  us,  by  the  way,  how  you  ever 
came  to  put  up  a  mill  here  with  such  an  un- 
certain water-supply." 

"  It  was  n't  onsartin  when  I  came  here, 
Mr.  Key ;  it  was  a  full-fed  stream  straight 
from  them  snow  peaks.  It  was  the  earth- 
quake did  it." 

"  The  earthquake  !  "  repeated  Key. 

"  Yes.     Ef  the  earthquake  kin  heave  up 


70         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

that  silver-bearing  rock  that  you  told  us 
about  the  first  day  you  kem  here,  and  that 
you  found  t'  other  day,  it  could  play  roots 
with  a  mere  mill-stream,  I  reckon." 

"  But  the  convulsion  I  spoke  of  happened 
ages  on  ages  ago,  when  this  whole  mountain 
range  was  being  fashioned,"  said  Key  with 
a  laugh. 

"  Well,  this  yer  earthquake  was  ten  years 
ago,  just  after  I  came.  I  reckon  I  oughter 
remember  it.  It  was  a  queer  sort  o'  day  in 
the  fall,  dry  and  hot  as  if  thar  might  hev 
bin  a  fire  in  the  woods,  only  thar  was  n't 
no  wind.  Not  a  breath  of  air  anywhar. 
The  leaves  of  them  alders  hung  straight  as 
a  plumb-line.  Except  for  that  thar  stream 
and  that  thar  wheel,  nuthin'  moved.  Thar 
was  n't  a  bird  on  the  wing  over  that  canon ; 
thar  was  n't  a  squirrel  skirmishin'  in  the 
hull  wood ;  even  the  lizards  in  the  rocks 
stiffened  like  stone  Chinese  idols.  It  kept 
gettin'  quieter  and  quieter,  ontil  I  walked 
out  on  that  ledge  and  felt  as  if  I  'd  have  to 
give  a  yell  just  to  hear  my  own  voice.  Thar 
was  a  thin  veil  over  everything,  and  betwixt 
and  between  everything,  and  the  sun  was 
rooted  in  the  middle  of  it  as  if  it  could  n't 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         71 

move  neither.  Everythin'  seemed  to  be 
waitin',  waitin',  waitin'.  Then  all  of  a 
suddin  suthin'  seemed  to  give  somewhar ! 
Suthin'  fetched  away  with  a  queer  sort  of 
rumblin',  as  if  the  peg  had  slipped  outer 
creation.  I  looked  up  and  kalkilated  to  see 
half  a  dozen  of  them  boulders  come,  lickity 
switch,  down  the  grade.  But,  darn  my  skin, 
if  one  of  'em  stirred !  and  yet  while  I  was 
looking,  the  whole  face  o'  that  bluff  bowed 
over  softly,  as  if  saying  '  Good-by,'  and 
got  clean  away  somewhar  before  I  knowed 
it.  Why,  you  see  that  pile  agin  the  side  o' 
the  canon  !  Well,  a  thousand  feet  under 
that  there 's  trees,  three  hundred  feet  high, 
still  upright  and  standin'.  You  know  how 
them  pines  over  on  that  far  mountain-side 
always  seem  to  be  climbin'  up,  up,  up,  over 
each  other's  heads  to  the  very  top?  Well, 
Mr.  Key,  /  saw  'em  climbin' !  And  when  I 
pulled  myself  together  and  got  back  to  the 
mill,  everything  was  quiet ;  and,  by  G — d, 
so  was  the  mill-wheel,  and  there  was  n't  two 
inches  of  water  in  the  river !  " 

"  And  what  did  you  think  of  it  ? "  said 
Key,  interested  in  spite  of  his  impatience. 

"  I  thought,  Mr.  Key  —    No  !  I  must  n't 


72         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

say  I  thought,  for  I  knowed  it.  I  knowed 
that  suthin'  had  happened  to  my  wife !  " 

Key  did  not  smile,  but  even  felt  a  faint 
superstitious  thrill  as  he  gazed  at  him. 
After  a  pause  Collinson  resumed  :  "I heard 
a  month  after  that  she  had  died  about  that 
tune  o'  yaller  fever  in  Texas  with  the  party 
she  was  comin'  with.  Her  folks  wrote  that 
they  died  like  flies,  and  wuz  all  buried  to- 
gether, unbeknownst  and  promiscuous,  and 
thar  was  n't  no  remains.  She  slipped  away 
from  me  like  that  bluff  over  that  canon,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  it." 

"  But  she  might  have  escaped,"  said  Key 
quickly,  forgetting  himself  in  his  eagerness. 

But  Collinson  only  shook  his  head.  "  Then 
she  'd  have  been  here,"  he  said  gravely. 

Key  moved  towards  the  door  still  ab- 
stractedly, held  out  his  hand,  shook  that  of 
his  companion  warmly,  and  then,  saddling 
his  horse  himself,  departed.  A  sense  of 
disappointment  —  in  which  a  vague  dissatis- 
faction with  himself  was  mingled  —  was  all 
that  had  come  of  his  interview.  He  took 
himself  severely  to  task  for  following  his  ro- 
mantic quest  so  far.  It  was  unworthy  of 
the  president  of  the  Sylvan  Silver  Hollow 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         73 

Company,  and  he  was  not  quite  sure  but 
that  his  confidences  with  Collinson  might 
have  imperiled  even  the  interests  of  the 
company.  To  atone  for  this  momentary  ab- 
erration, and  correct  his  dismal  fancies,  he 
resolved  to  attend  to  some  business  at  Skin- 
ner's before  returning,  and  branched  off  on 
a  long  detour  that  would  intersect  the  trav- 
eled stage-road.  But  here  a  singular  inci- 
dent overtook  him.  As  he  wheeled  into  the 
turnpike,  he  heard  the  trampling  hoof-beats 
and  jingling  harness  of  the  oncoming  coach 
behind  him.  He  had  barely  time  to  draw 
up  against  the  bank  before  the  six  galloping 
horses  and  swinging  vehicle  swept  heavily 
by.  He  had  a  quick  impression  of  the  heat 
and  steam  of  sweating  horse-hide,  the  reek 
of  varnish  and  leather,  and  the  momentary 
vision  of  a  female  face  silhouetted  against 
the  glass  window  of  the  coach!  But  even 
in  that  flash  of  perception  he  recognized  the 
profile  that  he  had  seen  at  the  window  of 
the  mysterious  hut ! 

He  halted  for  an  instant  dazed  and  be- 
wildered in  the  dust  of  the  departing  wheels,, 
Then,  as  the  bulk  of  the  vehicle  reappeared, 
already  narrowing  in  the  distance,  without  a 


74         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

second  thought  he  dashed  after  it.  His  dis- 
appointment, his  self-criticism,  his  practical 
resolutions  were  forgotten.  He  had  but  one 
idea  now  —  the  vision  was  providential ! 
The  clue  to  the  mystery  was  before  him  — 
he  must  follow  it ! 

Yet  he  had  sense  enough  to  realize  that 
the  coach  would  not  stop  to  take  up  a  pas- 
senger between  stations,  and  that  the  next 
station  was  the  one  three  miles  below  Skin- 
ner's. It  would  not  be  difficult  to  reach 
this  by  a  cut-off  in  time,  and  although  the 
vehicle  had  appeared  to  be  crowded,  he  could 
no  doubt  obtain  a  seat  on  top. 

His  eager  curiosity,  however,  led  him  to 
put  spurs  to  his  horse,  and  range  up  along- 
side of  the  coach  as  if  passing  it,  while  he 
examined  the  stranger  more  closely.  Her 
face  was  bent  listlessly  over  a  book ;  there 
was  unmistakably  the  same  profile  that  he 
had  seen,  but  the  full  face  was  different  in 
outline  and  expression.  A  strange  sense  of 
disappointment  that  was  almost  a  revulsion 
of  feeling  came  over  him;  he  lingered,  he 
glanced  again ;  she  was  certainly  a  very 
pretty  woman  :  there  was  the  beautifully 
rounded  chin,  the  short  straight  nose,  and 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         75 

delicately  curved  upper  lip,  that  he  had  seen 
in  the  profile,  —  and  yet  —  yet  it  was  not 
the  same  face  he  had  dreamt  of.  With  an 
odd,  provoking  sense  of  disillusion,  he  swept 
ahead  of  the  coach,  and  again  slackened  his 
speed  to  let  it  pass.  This  time  the  fair  un- 
known raised  her  long  lashes  and  gazed  sud- 
denly at  this  persistent  horseman  at  her  side, 
and  an  odd  expression,  it  seemed  to  him 
almost  a  glance  of  recognition  and  expecta- 
tion, came  into  her  dark,  languid  eyes.  The 
pupils  concentrated  upon  him  with  a  sin- 
gular significance,  that  was  almost,  he  even 
thought,  a  reply  to  his  glance,  and  yet  it 
was  as  utterly  unintelligible.  A  moment 
later,  however,  it  was  explained.  He  had 
fallen  slightly  behind  in  a  new  confusion  of 
hesitation,  wonder,  and  embarrassment,  when 
from  a  wooded  trail  to  the  right,  another 
horseman  suddenly  swept  into  the  road  be- 
fore him.  He  was  a  powerfully  built  man, 
mounted  on  a  thoroughbred  horse  of  a  quality 
far  superior  to  the  ordinary  roadster.  With- 
out looking  at  Key  he  easily  ranged  up  be- 
side the  coach  as  if  to  pass  it,  but  Key,  with 
a  sudden  resolution,  put  spurs  to  his  own 
horse  and  ranged  also  abreast  of  him,  in 


76         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

time  to  see  his  fair  unknown  start  at  the  ap- 
parition of  this  second  horseman  and  unmis- 
takably convey  some  signal  to  him,  —  a  sig- 
nal that  to  Key's  fancy  now  betrayed  some 
warning  of  himself.  He  was  the  more  con- 
vinced as  the  stranger,  after  continuing  a 
few  paces  ahead  of  the  coach,  allowed  it  to 
pass  him  at  a  curve  of  the  road,  and  slack- 
ened his  pace  to  permit  Key  to  do  the  same. 
Instinctively  conscious  that  the  stranger's 
object  was  to  scrutinize  or  identify  him,  he 
determined  to  take  the  initiative,  and  fixed 
his  eyes  upon  him  as  they  approached.  But 
the  stranger,  who  wore  a  loose  brown  linen 
duster  over  clothes  that  appeared  to  be 
superior  in  fashion  and  material,  also  had 
part  of  his  face  and  head  draped  by  a  white 
silk  handkerchief  worn  under  his  hat,  osten- 
sibly to  keep  the  sun  and  dust  from  his  head 
and  neck,  —  and  had  the  advantage  of  him. 
He  only  caught  the  flash  of  a  pair  of  steel- 
gray  eyes,  as  the  newcomer,  apparently  hav- 
ing satisfied  himself,  gave  rein  to  his  spirited 
steed  and  easily  repassed  the  coach,  disap- 
pearing in  a  cloud  of  dust  before  it.  But 
Key  had  by  this  time  reached  the  "  cut-onV' 
which  the  stranger,  if  he  intended  to  follow 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         77 

the  coach,  either  disdained  or  was  ignorant 
of,  and  he  urged  his  horse  to  its  utmost 
speed.  Even  with  the  stranger's  advantages 
it  would  be  a  close  race  to  the  station. 

Nevertheless,  as  he  dashed  on,  he  was  by 
no  means  insensible  to  the  somewhat  quix- 
otic nature  of  his  undertaking.  If  he  was 
right  in  his  suspicion  that  a  signal  had  been 
given  by  the  lady  to  the  stranger,  it  was  ex- 
ceedingly probable  that  he  had  discovered 
not  only  the  fair  inmate  of  the  robbers'  den, 
but  one  of  the  gang  itself,  or  at  least  a  con- 
federate and  ally.  Yet  far  from  deterring 
him,  in  that  ingenious  sophistry  with  which 
he  was  apt  to  treat  his  romance,  he  now 
looked  upon  his  adventure  as  a  practical 
pursuit  in  the  interests  of  law  and  justice. 
It  was  true  that  it  was  said  that  the  band  of 
road  agents  had  been  dispersed  |  it  was  a 
fact  that  there  had  been  110  spoliation  of 
coach  or  teams  for  three  weeks ;  but  none  of 
the  depredators  had  ever  been  caught,  and 
their  booty,  which  was  considerable,  was 
known  to  be  still  intact.  It  was  to  the  in- 
terest of  the  mine,  his  partners,  and  his 
workmen  that  this  clue  to  a  danger  which 
threatened  the  locality  should  be  followed  to 


78         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

the  end.  As  to  the  lady,  in  spite  of  the 
disappointment  that  still  rankled  in  his 
breast,  he  could  be  magnanimous !  She 
might  be  the  paramour  of  the  strange  horse- 
man, she  might  be  only  escaping  from  some 
hateful  companionship  by  his  aid.  And  yet 
one  thing  puzzled  him  :  she  was  evidently 
not  acquainted  with  the  personality  of  the 
active  gang,  for  she  had,  without  doubt,  at 
first  mistaken  him  for  one  of  them,  and  after 
recognizing  her  real  accomplice  had  commu- 
nicated her  mistake  to  him. 

It  was  a  great  relief  to  him  when  the 
rough  and  tangled  "  cut-off  "  at  last  broad- 
ened and  lightened  into  the  turnpike  road 
again,  and  he  beheld,  scarcely  a  quarter  of 
a  mile  before  him,  the  dust  cloud  that  over- 
hung the  coach  as  it  drew  up  at  the  lonely 
wayside  station.  He  was  in  time,  for  he 
knew  that  the  horses  were  changed  there; 
but  a  sudden  fear  that  the  fair  unknown 
might  alight,  or  take  some  other  conveyance, 
made  him  still  spur  his  jaded  steed  forward. 
As  he  neared  the  station  he  glanced  eagerly 
around  for  the  other  horseman,  but  he  was 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  He  had  evidently  eithei 
abandoned  the  chase  or  ridden  ahead. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         79 

It  seemed  equally  a  part  of  what  he  be- 
lieved was  a  providential  intercession,  that 
on  arriving  at  the  station  he  found  there 
was  a  vacant  seat  inside  the  coach.  It  was 
diagonally  opposite  that  occupied  by  the 
lady,  and  he  was  thus  enabled  to  study  her 
face  as  it  was  bent  over  her  book,  whose 
pages,  however,  she  scarcely  turned.  After 
her  first  casual  glance  of  curiosity  at  the 
new  passenger,  she  seemed  to  take  no  more 
notice  of  him,  and  Key  began  to  wonder  if 
he  had  not  mistaken  her  previous  interrogat- 
ing look.  Nor  was  it  his  only  disturbing 
query ;  he  was  conscious  of  the  same  disap- 
pointment now  that  he  could  examine  her 
face  more  attentively,  as  in  his  first  cursory 
glance.  She  was  certainly  handsome;  if 
there  was  no  longer  the  freshness  of  youth, 
there  was  still  the  indefinable  charm  of  the 
woman  of  thirty,  and  with  it  the  delicate 
curves  of  matured  muliebrity  and  repose. 
There  were  lines,  particularly  around  the 
mouth  and  fringed  eyelids,  that  were  deep- 
ened as  by  pain  ;  and  the  chin,  even  in  its 
rounded  fullness,  had  the  angle  of  deter- 
mination. From  what  was  visible,  below 
the  brown  linen  duster  that  she  wore,  she 


80         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

appeared  to  be  tastefully  although  not  richly 
dressed. 

As  the  coach  at  last  drove  away  from  the 
station,  a  grizzled,  farmer-looking  man  seated 
beside  her  uttered  a  sigh  of  relief,  so  pal- 
pable as  to  attract  the  general  attention. 
Turning  to  his  fair  neighbor  with  a  smile 
of  uncouth  but  good-humored  apology,  he 
said  in  explanation  :  — 

*'  You  '11  excuse  me,  miss  !  I  don't  know 
ezactly  how  you  Ve  feelin',  —  for  judging 
from  your  looks  and  gin'ral  gait,  you  're  a 
stranger  in  these  parts,  —  but  ez  for  me,  I 
don't  mind  sayin'  that  I  never  feel  ezactly 
safe  from  these  yer  road  agents  and  stage 
robbers  ontil  arter  we  pass  Skinner's  station. 
All  along  thet  Galloper's  Ridge  it's  jest 
tech  and  go  like;  the  woods  is  swarmin' 
with  'em.  But  once  past  Skinner's,  you  're 
all  right.  They  never  dare  go  below  that. 
So  ef  you  don't  mind,  miss,  for  it 's  bein' 
in  your  presence,  I  '11  jest  pull  off  my  butes 
and  ease  my  feet  for  a  spell." 

Neither  the  inconsequence  of  this  singu- 
lar request,  nor  the  smile  it  evoked  on  the 
faces  of  the  other  passengers,  seemed  to  dis- 
turb the  lady's  abstraction.  Scarcely  lifting 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         81 

her  eyes  from  her  book,  she  bowed  a  grave 
assent. 

"You  see,  miss,"  lie  continued,  "and 
you  gents,"  he  added,  taking  the  whole 
coach  into  his  confidence,  "  I  've  got  over 
forty  ounces  of  clean  gold  dust  in  them 
butes,  between  the  upper  and  lower  sole,  — 
and  it 's  mighty  tight  packing  for  my  feet. 
Ye  kin  heft  it,"  he  said,  as  he  removed  one 
boot  and  held  it  up  before  them.  "  I  put 
the  dust  there  for  safety  —  kalkilatin'  that 
while  these  road  gentry  allus  goes  for  a 
man's  pockets  and  his  body  belt,  they  never 
thinks  of  his  butes,  or  haven't  time  to  go 
through  'em."  He  looked  around  him  with 
a  smile  of  self-satisfaction. 

The  murmur  of  admiring  comment  was, 
nowever,  broken  by  a  burly-bearded  miner 
who  sat  in  the  middle  seat.  "  Thet  's  pretty 
fair,  as  far  as  it  goes,"  he  said  smilingly, 
"  but  I  reckon  it  would  n't  go  far  ef  you 
started  to  run.  I've  got  a  simpler  game 
than  that,  gentlemen,  and  ez  we  're  all 
friends  here,  and  the  danger 's  over,  I  don't 
mind  tellin'  ye.  The  first  thing  these  yer 
road  agents  do,  after  they  've  covered  the 
driver  with  their  shot  guns,  is  to  make  the 


82         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

passengers  get  out  and  hold  up  their  hands. 
That,  ma'am," — explanatorily  to  the  lady, 
who  betrayed  only  a  languid  interest,  —  "is 
to  keep  'em  from  drawing  their  revolvers. 
A  revolver  is  the  last  thing  a  road  agent 
wants,  either  in  a  man's  hand  or  in  his 
holster.  So  I  sez  to  myself,  '  Ef  a  six- 
shooter  ain't  of  no  account,  wot 's  the  use 
of  carry  in'  it  ? '  So  I  just  put  my  shooting- 
iron  in  my  valise  when  I  travel,  and  fill 
my  holster  with  my  gold  dust,  so !  It 's  a 
deuced  sight  heavier  than  a  revolver,  but 
they  don't  feel  its  weight,  and  don't  keer  to 
come  nigh  it.  And  I  've  been  '  held  up ' 
twice  on  t'  other  side  of  the  Divide  this 
year,  and  I  passed  free  every  time !  " 

The  applause  that  followed  this  revelation 
and  the  exhibition  of  the  holster  not  only 
threw  the  farmer's  exploits  into  the  shade, 
but  seemed  to  excite  an  emulation  among 
the  passengers.  Other  methods  of  securing 
their  property  were  freely  discussed ;  but 
the  excitement  culminated  in  the  leaning 
forward  of  a  passenger  who  had,  up  to  that 
moment,  maintained  a  reserve  almost  equal 
to  the  fair  unknown.  His  dress  and  gen- 
eral appearance  were  those  of  a  professional 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS-          83 

man;  his   voice   and   manner   corroborated 
the  presumption. 

"  I  don't  think,  gentlemen,"  he  began 
with  a  pleasant  smile,  "  that  any  man  of  us 
here  would  like  to  be  called  a  coward ;  but 
in  fighting  with  an  enemy  who  never  at- 
tacks, or  even  appears,  except  with  a  delib- 
erately prepared  advantage  on  his  side,  it 
is  my  opinion  that  a  man  is  not  only  justi- 
fied in  avoiding  an  unequal  encounter  with 
him,  but  in  circumventing  by  every  means 
the  object  of  his  attack.  You  have  all  been 
frank  in  telling  your  methods.  I  will  be 
equally  so  in  telling  mine,  even  if  I  have 
perhaps  to  confess  to  a  little  more  than  you 
have ;  for  I  have  not  only  availed  myself 
of  a  well-known  rule  of  the  robbers  who 
infest  these  mountains,  to  exempt  all  women 
and  children  from  their  spoliation,  —  a  rule 
which,  of  course,  they  perfectly  understand 
gives  them  a  sentimental  consideration  with 
all  Californians,  —  but  I  have,  I  confess, 
also  availed  myself  of  the  innocent  kindness 
of  one  of  that  charming  and  justly  exempted 
sex."  He  paused  and  bowed  courteously  to 
the  fair  unknown.  "  When  I  entered  this 
coach  I  had  with  me  a  bulky  parcel  which 
Bret  Harte  12— V.  6 


84         IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

was  manifestly  too  large  for  my  pockets, 
yet  as  evidently  too  small  and  too  valuable 
to  be  intrusted  to  the  ordinary  luggage. 
Seeing  my  difficulty,  our  charming  compan- 
ion opposite,  out  of  the  very  kindness  and 
innocence  of  her  heart,  offered  to  make  a 
place  for  it  in  her  satchel,  which  was  not 
full.  I  accepted  the  offer  joyfully.  When 
I  state  to  you,  gentlemen,  that  that  package 
contained  valuable  government  bonds  to  a 
considerable  amount,  I  do  so,  not  to  claim 
your  praise  for  any  originality  of  my  own, 
but  to  make  this  public  avowal  to  our  fair 
fellow  passenger  for  securing  to  me  this 
most  perfect  security  and  immunity  from 
the  road  agent  that  has  been  yet  recorded." 
With  his  eyes  riveted  on  the  lady's  face, 
Key  saw  a  faint  color  rise  to  her  other- 
wise impassive  face,  which  might  have  been 
called  out  by  the  enthusiastic  praise  that 
followed  the  lawyer's  confession.  But  he 
was  painfully  conscious  of  what  now  seemed 
to  him  a  monstrous  situation  I  Here  was, 
he  believed,  the  actual  accomplice  of  the 
road  agents  calmly  receiving  the  complacent 
and  puerile  confessions  of  the  men  who 
were  seeking  to  outwit  them.  Could  he,  in 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         85 

ordinary  justice  to  them,  to  himself,  or  the 
mission  he  conceived  he  was  pursuing,  re- 
frain from  exposing  her,  or  warning  them 
privately?  But  was  he  certain?  Was  a 
vague  remembrance  of  a  profile  momenta- 
rily seen  —  and,  as  he  must  even  now  admit, 
inconsistent  with  the  full  face  he  was  gaz- 
ing at — sufficient  for  such  an  accusation? 
More  than  that,  was  the  protection  she  had 
apparently  afforded  the  lawyer  consistent 
with  the  function  of  an  accomplice ! 

"  Then  if  the  danger  's  over,"  said  the 
lady  gently,  reaching  down  to  draw  her 
satchel  from  under  the  seat,  "  I  suppose  I 
may  return  it  to  you." 

"  By  no  means  !  Don't  trouble  yourself ! 
Pray  allow  me  to  still  remain  your  debtor,  — 
at  least  as  far  as  the  next  station,"  said  the 
lawyer  gallantly. 

The  lady  uttered  a  languid  sigh,  sank 
back  in  her  seat,  and  calmly  settled  herself 
to  the  perusal  of  her  book.  Key  felt  his 
cheeks  beginning  to  burn  with  the  embar- 
rassment and  shame  of  his  evident  miscon- 
ception. And  here  he  was  on  his  way  to 
Marysville,  to  follow  a  woman  for  whom 
he  felt  he  no  longer  cared,  and  for  whose 


86        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

pursuit  he  had  no  longer  the  excuse  of 
justice. 

"  Then  I  understand  that  you  have  twice 
seen  these  road  agents,"  said  the  profes- 
sional man,  turning  to  the  miner.  "  Of 
course,  you  could  be  able  to  identify  them  ?  " 

"  Nary  a  man !  You  see  they  're  all 
masked,  and  only  one  of  'em  ever  speaks." 

"The  leader  or  chief?" 

"  No,  the  orator." 

"  The  orator  ?  "  repeated  the  professional 
man  in  amazement. 

"  Well,  you  see,  /  call  him  the  orator, 
for  he  's  mighty  glib  with  his  tongue,  and 
reels  off  all  he  has  to  say  like  as  if  he  had 
it  by  heart.  He 's  mighty  rough  on  you, 
too,  sometimes,  for  all  his  high-toned  style. 
Ef  he  thinks  a  man  is  hidin'  anything  he 
jest  scalps  him  with  his  tongue,  and  blamed 
if  I  don't  think  he  likes  the  chance  of  doin' 
it.  He  's  got  a  regular  set  speech,  and  he 's 
bound  to  go  through  it  all,  even  if  he  makes 
everything  wait,  and  runs  the  risk  of  cap- 
ture. Yet  he  ain't  the  chief,  —  and  even 
I  've  heard  folks  say  ain't  got  any  responsi- 
bility if  he  is  took,  for  he  don't  tech  any- 
body or  anybody's  money,  and  could  n't 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.         87 

be  prosecuted.  I  reckon  he 's  some  sort  of 
a  broken-down  lawyer  —  d'  ye  see  ?  " 

"  Not  much  of  a  lawyer,  I  imagine,"  said 
the  professional  man,  smiling,  "  for  he  '11 
find  himself  quite  mistaken  as  to  his  share 
of  responsibility.  But  it 's  a  rather  clever 
way  of  concealing  the  identity  of  the  real 
leader." 

"  It  's  the  smartest  gang  that  was  ever 
started  in  the  Sierras.  They  fooled  the 
sheriff  of  Sierra  the  other  day.  They  gave 
him  a  sort  of  idea  that  they  had  a  kind  of 
hidin'-place  in  the  woods  whar  they  met 
and  kept  their  booty,  and,  by  jinks!  he 
goes  down  thar  with  his  hull  posse,  —  just 
spilin'  for  a  fight,  —  and  only  lights  upon 
a  gang  of  innocent  greenhorns,  who  were 
boring  for  silver  on  the  very  spot  where  he 
allowed  the  robbers  had  their  den !  He 
ain't  held  up  his  head  since." 

Key  cast  a  quick  glance  at  the  lady  to  see 
the  effect  of  this  revelation.  But  her  face 
—  if  the  same  profile  he  had  seen  at  the 
window  —  betrayed  neither  concern  nor 
curiosity.  He  let  his  eyes  drop  to  the  smart 
boot  that  peeped  from  below  her  gown,  and 
the  thought  of  his  trying  to  identify  it  with 


88        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

the  slipper  he  had  picked  up  seemed  to  him 
as  ridiculous  as  his  other  misconceptions. 
He  sank  back  gloomily  in  his  seat;  by 
degrees  the  fatigue  and  excitement  of  the 
day  began  to  mercifully  benumb  his  senses ; 
twilight  had  fallen  and  the  talk  had  ceased. 
The  lady  had  allowed  her  book  to  drop  in 
her  lap  as  the  darkness  gathered,  and  had 
closed  her  eyes ;  he  closed  his  own,  and 
slipped  away  presently  into  a  dream,  in  which 
he  saw  the  profile  again  as  he  had  seen  it  in 
the  darkness  of  the  hollow,  only  that  this 
time  it  changed  to  a  full  face,  unlike  the 
lady's  or  any  one  he  had  ever  seen.  Then 
the  window  seemed  to  open  with  a  rattle,  and 
he  again  felt  the  cool  odors  of  the  forest ;  but 
he  awoke  to  find  that  the  lady  had  only 
opened  her  window  for  a  breath  of  fresh  air. 
It  was  nearly  eight  o'  clock ;  it  would  be  an 
hour  yet  before  the  coach  stopped  at  the 
next  station  for  supper ;  the  passengers  were 
drowsily  nodding ;  he  closed  his  eyes  and 
fell  into  a  deeper  sleep,  from  which  he  awoke 
with  a  start. 

The  coach  had  stopped ! 


CHAPTER  IVo 

"!T  can't  be  Three  Pines  yet,"  said  a 
passenger's  voice,  in  which  the  laziness  of 
sleep  still  lingered,  "  or  else  we  've  snoozed 
over  five  mile.  I  don't  see  no  lights ;  wot 
are  we  stoppin'  for  ?  "  The  other  passengers 
struggled  to  an  upright  position.  One  near- 
est the  window  opened  it;  its  place  was 
instantly  occupied  by  the  double  muzzle  of 
a  shot-gun !  No  one  moved.  In  the  awe- 
stricken  silence  the  voice  of  the  driver  rose 
in  drawling  protestation. 

"It  ain't  no  business  o'  mine,  but  it 
sorter  strikes  me  that  you  chaps  are  a-playin' 
it  just  a  little  too  fine  this  time  I  It  ain't 
three  miles  from  Three  Pine  Station  and 
forty  men  Of  course,  that 's  your  lookout, 
—  not  mine  !  " 

The  audacity  of  the  thing  had  evidently 
struck  even  the  usually  taciturn  and  phleg- 
matic driver  into  his  first  expostulation  on 
record. 


90        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  Your  thoughtful  consideration  does  you 
great  credit,"  said  a  voice  from  the  dark- 
ness, "  and  shall  be  properly  presented  to 
our  manager ;  but  at  the  same  time  we  wish 
it  understood  that  we  do  not  hesitate  to  take 
any  risks  in  strict  attention  to  our  business 
and  our  clients.  In  the  mean  time  you  will 
expedite  matters,  and  give  your  passengers 
a  chance  to  get  an  early  tea  at  Three  Pines, 
by  handing  down  that  treasure-box  and  mail- 
pouch.  Be  careful  in  handling  that  blun- 
derbuss you  keep  beside  it ;  the  last  time 
it  unfortunately  went  off,  and  I  regret  to 
say  slightly  wounded  one  of  your  passengers. 
Accidents  of  this  kind,  interfering,  as  they 
do,  with  the  harmony  and  pleasure  of  our 
chance  meetings,  cannot  be  too  highly  de- 
plored." 

"  By  gosh ! "  ejaculated  an  outside  pas- 
senger in  an  audible  whisper. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,"  said  the  voice  quietly ; 
"  but  as  I  overlooked  you,  I  will  trouble  you 
now  to  descend  with  the  others." 

The  voice  moved  nearer ;  and,  by  the  light 
of  a  flaming  bull's-eye  cast  upon  the  coach,  it 
could  be  seen  to  come  from  a  stout,  medium- 
sized  man  with  a  black  mask,  which,  however, 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        91 

showed  half  of  a  smooth,  beardless  face,  and 
an  affable  yet  satirical  mouth.  The  speaker 
cleared  his  throat  with  the  slight  preparatory 
cough  of  the  practiced  orator,  and,  approach- 
ing the  window,  to  Key's  intense  surprise, 
actually  began  in  the  identical  professional 
and  rhetorical  style  previously  indicated  by 
the  miner. 

"  Circumstances  over  which  we  have  no 
control,  gentlemen,  compel  us  to  oblige  you 
to  alight,  stand  in  a  row  on  one  side,  and 
hold  up  your  hands.  You  will  find  the  atti- 
tude not  unpleasant  after  your  cramped  posi- 
tion in  the  coach,  while  the  change  from  its 
confined  air  to  the  wholesome  night-breeze 
of  the  Sierras  cannot  but  prove  salutary 
and  refreshing.  It  will  also  enable  us  to 
relieve  you  of  such  so-called  valuables  and 
treasures  in  the  way  of  gold  dust  and  coin, 
which  I  regret  to  say  too  often  are  misap- 
plied in  careless  hands,  and  which  the  teach- 
ings of  the  highest  morality  distinctly  denom- 
inate as  the  root  of  all  evil  I  I  need  not 
inform  you,  gentlemen,  as  business  men,  that 
promptitude  and  celerity  of  compliance  will 
insure  dispatch,  and  shorten  an  interview 
which  has  been  sometimes  needlessly,  and, 
I  regret  to  say,  painfully  protracted." 


92        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

He  drew  back  deliberately  with  the  same 
monotonous  precision  of  habit,  and  disclosed 
the  muzzles  of  his  confederates'  weapons 
still  leveled  at  the  passengers.  In  spite  of 
their  astonishment,  indignation,  and  discom- 
fiture, his  practiced  effrontery  and  deliberate 
display  appeared  in  some  way  to  touch  their 
humorous  sense,  and  one  or  two  smiled 
hysterically,  as  they  rose  and  hesitatingly 
filed  out  of  the  vehicle.  It  is  possible,  how- 
ever, that  the  leveled  shot-guns  contributed 
more  or  less  directly  to  this  result. 

Two  masks  began  to  search  the  passengers 
under  the  combined  focus  of  the  bull's-eyes, 
the  shining  gun-barrels,  and  a  running  but 
still  carefully  prepared  commentary  from  the 
spokesman.  "  It  is  to  be  regretted  that  busi- 
ness men,  instead  of  intrusting  their  property 
to  the  custody  of  the  regularly  constituted 
express  agent,  still  continue  to  secrete  it 
on  their  persons ;  a  custom  that,  without 
enhancing  its  security,  is  not  only  an  injus- 
tice to  the  express  company,  but  a  great 
detriment  to  dispatch.  We  also  wish  to 
point  out  that  while  we  do  not  as  a  rule 
interfere  with  the  possession  of  articles  of 
ordinary  personal  use  or  adornment,  such  as 


ZZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        93 

simple  jewelry  or  watches,  we  reserve  our 
right  to  restrict  by  confiscation  the  vulgarity 
and  unmanliness  of  diamonds  and  enormous 
fob. chains." 

The  act  of  spoliation  was  apparently  com- 
plete, yet  it  was  evident  that  the  orator  was 
restraining  himself  for  a  more  effective  cli- 
max. Clearing  his  throat  again  and  step- 
ping before  the  impatient  but  still  mystified 
file  of  passengers,  he  reviewed  them  gravely 
Then  in  a  perfectly  pitched  tone  of  mingle^ 
pain  and  apology,  he  said  slowly :  — 

"  It  would  seem  that,  from  no  wish  of  oui 
own,  we  are  obliged  on  this  present  occasion 
to  suspend  one  or  two  of  our  usual  rules. 
We  are  not  in  the  habit  of  interfering  with 
the  wearing  apparel  of  our  esteemed  clients ; 
but  in  the  interests  of  ordinary  humanity  we 
are  obliged  to  remove  the  boots  of  the  gen- 
tleman on  the  extreme  left,  which  evidently 
give  him  great  pain  and  impede  his  locomo- 
tion. We  also  seldom  deviate  from  our  rule 
of  obliging  our  clients  to  hold  up  their  hands 
during  this  examination ;  but  we  gladly  make 
an  exception  in  favor  of  the  gentleman  next 
to  him,  and  permit  him  to  hand  us  the  alto- 
gether too  heavily  weighted  holster  which 


94        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

presses  upon  his  hip.  Gentlemen,"  said 
the  orator,  slightly  raising  his  voice,  with 
a  deprecating  gesture,  "you  need  not  be 
alarmed !  The  indignant  movement  of  our 
friend,  just  now,  was  not  to  draw  his  revolver, 
—  for  it  is  n't  there !  "  He  paused  while  his 
companions  speedily  removed  the  farmer's 
boots  and  the  miner's  holster,  and  with  a 
still  more  apologetic  air  approached  the 
coach,  where  only  the  lady  remained  erect 
and  rigid  in  her  corner.  "  And  now,"  he 
said  with  simulated  hesitation,  "  we  come  to 
the  last  and  to  us  the  most  painful  suspension 
of  our  rules.  On  these  very  rare  occasions, 
when  we  have  been  honored  with  the  pres- 
ence of  the  fair  sex,  it  has  been  our  invari- 
able custom  not  only  to  leave  them  in  the 
undisturbed  possession  of  their  property,  but 
even  of  their  privacy  as  well.  It  is  with 
deep  regret  that  on  this  occasion  we  are 
obliged  to  make  an  exception.  For  in  the 
present  instance,  the  lady,  out  of  the  gentle- 
ness of  her  heart  and  the  politeness  of  her 
sex,  has  burdened  herself  not  only  with  the 
weight  but  the  responsibility  of  a  package 
forced  upon  her  by  one  of  the  passengers. 
We  feel,  and  we  believe,  gentlemen,  that 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        95 

most  of  you  will  agree  with  us,  that  so  scan- 
dalous and  unmanly  an  attempt  to  evade  our 
rules  and  violate  the  sanctity  of  the  lady's  im- 
munity will  never  be  permitted.  For  your 
own  sake,  madam,  we  are  compelled  to  ask 
you  for  the  satchel  under  your  seat.  It 
will  be  returned  to  you  when  the  package  is 
removed." 

"  One  moment,"  said  the  professional 
man  indignantly,  "there  is  a  man  here 
whom  you  have  spared,  —  a  man  who  lately 
joined  us.  Is  that  man,"  pointing  to  the 
astonished  Key,  "  one  of  your  confederates  ?  " 

"  That  man,"  returned  the  spokesman 
with  a  laugh,  "  is  the  owner  of  the  Sylvan 
Hollow  Mine.  We  have  spared  him  because 
we  owe  him  some  consideration  for  having 
been  turned  out  of  his  house  at  the  dead  of 
night  while  the  sheriff  of  Sierra  was  seek- 
ing us."  He  stopped,  and  then  in  an  entirely 
different  voice,  and  in  a  totally  changed 
manner,  said  roughly,  'fe  Tumble  in  there,  all 
of  you,  quick!  And  you,  sir"  (to  Key), 
—  "  I  'd  advise  you  to  ride  outside.  Now, 
driver,  raise  so  much  as  a  rein  or  a  whip- 
lash until  you  hear  the  signal  —  and  by  God ! 
you  '11  know  what  next."  He  stepped  back, 


96        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

and  seemed  to  be  instantly  swallowed  up 
in  the  darkness ;  but  the  light  of  a  solitary 
bull's-eye  —  the  holder  himself  invisible  — 
still  showed  the  muzzles  of  the  guns  covering 
the  driver.  There  was  a  momentary  stir  of 
voices  within  the  closed  coach,  but  an  angry 
roar  of  "Silence!"  from  the  darkness 
hushed  it. 

The  moments  crept  slowly  by;  all  now 
were  breathless.  Then  a  clear  whistle  rang 
from  the  distance,  the  light  suddenly  was 
extinguished,  the  leveled  muzzles  vanished 
with  it,  the  driver's  lash  fell  simultaneously 
on  the  backs  of  his  horses,  and  the  coach 
leaped  forward. 

The  jolt  nearly  threw  Key  from  the  top, 
but  a  moment  later  it  was  still  more  difficult 
to  keep  his  seat  in  the  headlong  fury  of 
their  progress.  Again  and  again  the  lash 
descended  upon  the  maddened  horses,  until 
the  whole  coach  seemed  to  leap,  bound,  and 
swerve  with  every  stroke.  Cries  of  protest 
and  even  distress  began  to  come  from  the 
interior,  but  the  driver  heeded  it  not.  A 
window  was  suddenly  let  down ;  the  voice  of 
the  professional  man  saying,  "  What 's  the 
matter?  We're  not  followed.  You  are. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        97 

imperiling  our  lives  by  this  speed,"  was 
answered  only  by,  "  Will  some  of  ye  throt- 
tle that  d — d  fool?"  from  the  driver,  and 
the  renewed  fall  of  the  lash.  The  wayside 
trees  appeared  a  solid  plateau  before  them, 
opened,  danced  at  their  side,  closed  up  again 
behind  them,  —  but  still  they  sped  along. 
Rushing  down  grades  with  the  speed  of  an 
avalanche,  they  ascended  again  without  draw- 
ing rein,  and  as  if  by  sheer  momentum; 
for  the  heavy  vehicle  now  seemed  to  have 
a  diabolical  energy  of  its  own.  It  ground 
scattered  rocks  to  powder  with  its  crushing 
wheels,  it  swayed  heavily  on  ticklish  corners, 
recovering  itself  with  the  resistless  forward 
propulsion  of  the  straining  teams,  until  the 
lights  of  Three  Pine  Station  began  to  glitter 
through  the  trees.  Then  a  succession  of 
yells  broke  from  the  driver,  so  strong  and 
dominant  that  they  seemed  to  outstrip  even 
the  speed  of  the  unabated  cattle.  Lesser 
lights  were  presently  seen  running  to  and 
fro,  and  on  the  outermost  fringe  of  the  settle- 
ment the  stage  pulled  up  before  a  crowd  of 
wondering  faces,  and  the  driver  spoke. 

"  We  've  been  held  up  on  the  open  road, 
by  G — d,  not    three    miles  from  whar  ye 


98        IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

men  are  sittin'  here  yawpin' !  If  thar  's  a 
man  among  ye  that  has  n't  got  the  soul  of 
a  skunk,  he  '11  foller  and  close  in  upon  'em 
before  they  have  a  chance  to  get  into  the 
brush."  Having  thus  relieved  himself  of 
his  duty  as  an  enforced  noncombatant,  and 
allowed  all  further  responsibility  to  devolve 
upon  his  recreant  fellow  employees,  he  re- 
lapsed into  his  usual  taciturnity,  and  drove 
a  trifle  less  recklessly  to  the  station,  where 
he  grimly  set  down  his  bruised  and  dis- 
comfited passengers.  As  Key  mingled  with 
them,  he  could  not  help  perceiving  that 
neither  the  late  "  orator's  "  explanation  of 
his  exemption  from  their  fate,  nor  the  driv- 
er's surly  corroboration  of  his  respecta- 
bility, had  pacified  them.  For  a  time  this 
amused  him,  particularly  as  he  could  not 
help  remembering  that  he  first  appeared  to 
them  beside  the  mysterious  horseman  who 
some  one  thought  had  been  identified  as  one 
of  the  masks.  But  he  was  not  a  little  piqued 
to  find  that  the  fair  unknown  appeared  to 
participate  in  their  feelings,  and  his  first 
civility  to  her  met  with  a  chilling  response. 
Even  then,  in  the  general  disillusion  of  his 
romance  regarding  her,  this  would  have 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.        99 

been  only  a  momentary  annoyance ;  but  it 
strangely  revived  all  his  previous  suspicions, 
and  set  him  to  thinking.  Was  the  singular 
sagacity  displayed  by  the  orator  in  his  search 
purely  intuitive  ?  Could  any  one  have  dis- 
closed to  him  the  secret  of  the  passengers' 
hoards  ?  Was  it  possible  -for  her  while  sit- 
ting alone  in  the  coach  to  have  communicated 
with  the  band  ?  Suddenly  the  remembrance 
flashed  across  him  of  her  opening  the  window 
for  fresh  air !  She  could  have  easily  then 
dropped  some  signal.  If  this  were  so, 
and  she  really  was  the  culprit,  it  was  quite 
natural  for  her  own  safety  that  she  should 
encourage  the  passengers  in  the  absurd  sus- 
picion of  himself !  His  dying  interest  re- 
vived ;  a  few  moments  ago  he  had  half 
resolved  to  abandon  his  quest  and  turn  back 
at  Three  Pines.  Now  he  determined  to 
follow  her  to  the  end.  But  he  did  not 
indulge  in  any  further  sophistry  regarding 
his  duty ;  yet,  in  a  new  sense  of  honor,  he 
did  not  dream  of  retaliating  upon  her  by 
communicating  his  suspicions  to  his  fellow 
passengers.  When  the  coach  started  again, 
he  took  his  seat  on  the  top,  and  remained 
there  until  they  reached  Jamestown  in  the 


100      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

early  evening.  Here  a  number  of  his  de- 
spoiled companions  were  obliged  to  wait,  to 
communicate  with  their  friends.  Happily, 
the  exemption  that  had  made  them  indignant 
enabled  him  to  continue  his  journey  with 
a  full  purse.  But  he  was  content  with  a 
modest  surveillance  of  the  lady  from  the  top 
of  the  coach. 

On  arriving  at  Stockton  this  surveillance 
became  less  easy.  It  was  the  terminus  of 
the  stage-route,  and  the  divergence  of  others 
by  boat  and  rail.  If  he  were  lucky  enough 
to  discover  which  one  the  lady  took,  his  pres- 
ence now  would  be  more  marked,  and  might 
excite  her  suspicion.  But  here  a  circum- 
stance, which  he  also  believed  to  be  provi- 
dential, determined  him.  As  the  luggage 
was  being  removed  from  the  top  of  the  coach, 
he  overheard  the  agent  tell  the  expressman 
to  check  the  "  lady's  "  trunk  to  San  Luis. 
Key  was  seized  with  an  idea  which  seemed  to 
solve  the  difficulty,  although  it  involved  a 
risk  of  losing  the  clue  entirely.  There  were 
two  routes  to  San  Luis,  one  was  by  stage,  and 
direct,  though  slower ;  the  other  by  steam- 
boat and  rail,  via  San  Francisco.  If  he 
took  the  boat,  there  was  less  danger  of  her 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      101 

discovering  him,  even  if  she  chose  the  same 
conveyance  ;  if  she  took  the  direct  stage,  — 
and  he  trusted  to  a  woman's  avoidance  of  the 
hurry  of  change  and  transshipment  for  that 
choice,  —  he  would  still  arrive  at  San  Luis, 
via  San  Francisco,  an  hour  before  her.  He 
resolved  to  take  the  boat ;  a  careful  scrutiny 
from  a  stateroom  window  of  the  arriving 
passengers  on  the  gangplank  satisfied  him 
that  she  had  preferred  the  stage.  There 
was  still  the  chance  that  in  losing  sight  of 
her  she  might  escape  him,  but  the  risk 
seemed  small.  And  a  trifling  circumstance 
had  almost  unconsciously  influenced  him  — 
after  his  romantic  and  superstitious  fashion 
—  as  to  this  final  step. 

He  had  been  singularly  moved  when  he 
heard  that  San  Luis  was  the  lady's  probable 
destination.  It  did  not  seem  to  bear  any 
relation  to  the  mountain  wilderness  and  the 
wild  life  she  had  just  quitted;  it  was  ap- 
parently the  most  antipathic,  incongruous, 
and  inconsistent  refuge  she  could  have 
taken.  It  offered  no  opportunity  for  the 
disposal  of  booty,  or  for  communication  with 
the  gang.  It  was  less  secure  than  a  crowded 
town.  An  old  Spanish  mission  and  monas- 


102      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

tery  college  in  a  sleepy  pastoral  plain,  —  it 
had  even  retained  its  old-world  flavor  amidst 
American  improvements  and  social  revolu- 
tion. He  knew  it  well.  From  the  quaint 
college  cloisters,  where  the  only  reposeful 
years  of  his  adventurous  youth  had  been 
spent,  to  the  long  Alameda,  or  double  ave- 
nues of  ancient  trees,  which  connected  it 
with  the  convent  of  Santa  Luisa,  and  some 
of  his  youthful  "  devotions,"  —  it  had  been 
the  nursery  of  his  romance.  He  was 
amused  at  what  seemed  to  be  the  irony  of 
fate,  in  now  linking  it  with  this  folly  of  his 
maturer  manhood  ;  and  yet  he  was  uneasily 
conscious  of  being  more  seriously  affected 
by  it.  And  it  was  with  a  greater  anxiety 
than  this  adventure  had  ever  yet  cost  him 
that  he  at  last  arrived  at  the  San  Jose  hotel,, 
and  from  a  balcony  corner  awaited  the  com-. 
ing  of  the  coach.  His  heart  beat  rapidly 
as  it  approached.  She  was  there  !  But  at 
her  side,  as  she  descended  from  the  coach, 
was  the  mysterious  horseman  of  the  Sierra 
road.  Key  could  not  mistake  the  well-built 
figure,  whatever  doubt  there  had  been  about 
^the  features,  which  had  been  so  carefully 
concealed.  With  the  astonishment  of  this 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      103 

rediscovery,  there  flashed  across  him  again 
the  fatefulness  of  the  inspiration  which  had 
decided  him  not  to  go  in  the  coach.  His 
presence  there  would  have  no  doubt  warned 
the  stranger,  and  so  estopped  this  convincing 
denouement.  It  was  quite  possible  that  her 
companion,  by  relays  of  horses  and  the  ad- 
vantage of  bridle  cut-offs,  could  have  easily 
followed  the  Three  Pine  coach  and  joined 
her  at  Stockton.  But  for  what  purpose? 
The  lady's  trunk,  which  had  not  been  dis- 
turbed during  the  first  part  of  the  journey, 
and  had  been  forwarded  at  Stockton  un- 
touched before  Key's  eyes,  could  not  have 
contained  booty  to  be  disposed  of  in  this 
forgotten  old  town. 

The  register  of  the  hotel  bore  simply  the 
name  of  "Mrs.  Barker,"  of  Stockton,  but 
no  record  of  her  companion,  who  seemed  to 
have  disappeared  as  mysteriously  as  he  came. 
That  she  occupied  a  sitting-room  on  the  same 
floor  as  his  own  —  in  which  she  was  ap- 
parently secluded  during  the  rest  of  the  day 
—  was  all  he  knew.  Nobody  else  seemed 
to  know  her.  Key  felt  an  odd  hesitation, 
that  might  have  been  the  result  of  some 
vague  fear  of  implicating  her  prematurely, 


104      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLk.. 

in  making  any  marked  inquiry,  or  imper- 
iling his  secret  by  the  bribed  espionage 
of  servants.  Once  when  he  was  passing 
her  door  he  heard  the  sounds  of  laughter, 
—  albeit  innocent  and  heart-free,  —  which 
seemed  so  inconsistent  with  the  gravity  of 
the  situation  and  his  own  thoughts  that  he 
was  strangely  shocked.  But  he  was  still 
more  disturbed  by  a  later  occurrence.  In 
his  watchfulness  of  the  movements  of  his 
neighbor  he  had  been  equally  careful  of  his 
own,  and  had  not  only  refrained  from  regis- 
tering his  name,  but  had  enjoined  secrecy 
upon  the  landlord,  whom  he  knew.  Yet  the 
next  morning  after  his  arrival,  the  porter 
not  answering  his  bell  promptly  enough,  he 
so  far  forgot  himself  as  to  walk  to  the  stair- 
case, which  was  near  the  lady's  room,  and 
call  to  the  employee  over  the  balustrade.  As 
he  was  still  leaning  over  the  railing,  the 
faint  creak  of  a  door,  and  a  singular  mag- 
netic consciousness  of  being  overlooked, 
caused  him  to  turn  slowly,  but  only  in  time 
to  hear  the  rustle  of  a  withdrawing  skirt  as 
the  door  was  quickly  closed.  In  an  instant 
he  felt  the  full  force  of  his  foolish  heedless- 
ness,  but  it  was  too  late.  Had  the  mys- 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      105 

terious  fugitive  recognized  him  ?  Perhaps 
not ;  their  eyes  had  not  met,  and  his  face 
had  been  turned  away. 

He  varied  his  espionage  by  subterfuges, 
which  his  knowledge  of  the  old  town  made 
easy,,  He  watched  the  door  of  the  hotel, 
himself  unseen,  from  the  windows  of  a  bil- 
liard saloon  opposite,  which  he  had  fre- 
quented in  former  days.  Yet  he  was  sur- 
prised the  same  afternoon  to  see  her,  from 
his  coigne  of  vantage,  reentering  the  hotel, 
where  he  was  sure  he  had  left  her  a  few  mo- 
ments ago.  Had  she  gone  out  by  some  other 
exit,  —  or  had  she  been  disguised  ?  But  on 
entering  his  room  that  evening  he  was  con- 
founded by  an  incident  that  seemed  to  him 
as  convincing  of  her  identity  as  it  was  auda- 
cious. Lying  on  his  pillow  were  a  few  dead 
leaves  of  an  odorous  mountain  fern,  known 
only  to  the  Sierras.  They  were  tied  to- 
gether by  a  narrow  blue  ribbon,  and  had  evi- 
dently been  intended  to  attract  his  attention. 
As  he  took  them  in  his  hand,  the  distin- 
guishing subtle  aroma  of  the  little  sylvan 
hollow  in  the  hills  came  to  him  like  a  mem- 
ory and  a  revelation  !  He  summoned  the 
chambermaid ;  she  knew  nothing  of  them,1 


106      17V  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

or  indeed  of  any  one  who  had  entered  his 
room.  He  walked  cautiously  into  the  hall ; 
the  lady's  sitting-room  door  was  open,  the 
room  was  empty.  "  The  occupant,"  said  the 
chambermaid,  "  had  left  that  afternoon." 
He  held  the  proof  of  her  identity  in  his 
hand,  but  she  herself  had  vanished  !  That 
she  had  recognized  him  there  was  now  no 
doubt :  had  she  divined  the  real  object  of 
his  quest,  or  had  she  accepted  it  as  a  mere 
sentimental  gallantry  at  the  moment  when 
she  knew  it  was  hopeless,  and  she  herself 
was  perfectly  safe  from  pursuit?  In  either 
event  he  had  been  duped.  He  did  not  know 
whether  to  be  piqued,  angry,  —  or  relieved  of 
his  irresolute  quest. 

Nevertheless,  he  spent  the  rest  of  the  twi- 
light and  the  early  evening  in  fruitlessly 
wandering  through  the  one  long  thorough- 
fare of  the  town,  until  it  merged  into  the 
bosky  Alameda,  or  spacious  grove,  that  con- 
nected it  with  Santa  Luisa.  By  degrees  his 
chagrin  and  disappointment  were  forgotten 
in  the  memories  of  the  past,  evoked  by  the 
familiar  pathway.  The  moon  was  slowly 
riding  overhead,  and  silvering  the  carriage- 
way between  the  straight  ebony  lines  of 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      107 

trees,  while  the  footpaths  were  diapered  with 
black  and  white  checkers.  The  faint  tink- 
ling of  a  tram-car  bell  in  the  distance  ap- 
prised him  of  one  of  the  few  innovations  of 
the  past.  The  car  was  approaching  him, 
overtook  him,  and  was  passing,  with  its 
faintly  illuminated  windows,  when,  glancing 
carelessly  up,  he  beheld  at  one  of  them  the 
profile  of  the  face  which  he  had  just  thought 
he  had  lost  forever ! 

He  stopped  for  an  instant,  not  in  inde- 
cision this  time,  but  in  a  grim  resolution 
to  let  no  chance  escape  him  now.  The  car 
was  going  slowly ;  it  was  easy  to  board  it 
now,  but  again  the  tinkle  of  the  bell  indi- 
cated that  it  was  stopping  at  the  corner  of 
a  road  beyond*  He  checked  his  pace,  —  a 
lady  alighted,  —  it  was  she !  She  turned 
into  the  cross  -  street,  darkened  with  the 
shadows  of  some  low  suburban  tenement 
houses,  and  he  boldly  followed.  He  was 
fully  determined  to  find  out  her  secret,  and 
even,  if  necessary,  to  accost  her  for  that  pur- 
pose. He  was  perfectly  aware  what  he  was 
doing,  and  all  its  risks  and  penalties ;  he 
knew  the  audacity  of  such  an  introduction, 
but  he  felt  in  his  left-hand  pocket  for  the 


108      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

sprig  of  fern  which  was  an  excuse  for  it; 
he  knew  the  danger  of  following  a  possible 
confidante  of  desperadoes,  but  he  felt  in  his 
right-hand  pocket  for  the  derringer  that  was 
equal  to  it.  They  were  both  there ;  he  was 
ready. 

He  was  nearing  the  convent  and  the  old- 
est and  most  ruinous  part  of  the  town.  He 
did  not  disguise  from  himself  the  gloomy 
significance  of  this  ;  even  in  the  old  days  the 
crumbling  adobe  buildings  that  abutted  on 
the  old  garden  wall  of  the  convent  were  the 
haunts  of  lawless  Mexicans  and  vagabond 
peons.  As  the  roadway  began  to  be  rough 
and  uneven,  and  the  gaunt  outlines  of  the 
sagging  roofs  of  tiles  stood  out  against  the 
sky  above  the  lurking  shadows  of  ruined 
doorways,  he  was  prepared  for  the  worst. 
As  the  crumbling  but  still  massive  walls  of 
the  convent  garden  loomed  ahead,  the  tall, 
graceful,  black -gowned  figure  he  was  fol- 
lowing presently  turned  into  the  shadow 
of  the  wall  itself.  He  quickened  his  pace, 
lest  it  should  again  escape  him.  Sud- 
denly it  stopped,  and  remained  motionless. 
He  stopped,  too.  At  the  same  moment 
it  vanished  I 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      109 

He  ran  quickly  forward  to  where  it  had 
stood,  and  found  himself  before  a  large  iron 
gate,  with  a  smaller  one  in  the  centre,  that 
had  just  clanged  to  on  its  rusty  hinges.  He 
rubbed  his  eyes  !  —  the  place,  the  gate,  the 
wall,  were  all  strangely  familiar !  Then  he 
stepped  back  into  the  roadway,  and  looked 
at  it  again.  He  was  not  mistaken. 

He  was  standing  before  the  porter's  lodge 
of  the  Convent  of  the  Sacred  Heart. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THE  day  following  the  great  stagecoach 
robbery  found  the  patient  proprietor  of 
Collinson's  Mill  calm  and  untroubled  in  his 
usual  seclusion.  The  news  that  had  thrilled 
the  length  and  breadth  of  Galloper's  Ridge 
had  not  touched  the  leafy  banks  of  the 
dried-up  river ;  the  hue  and  cry  had  fol- 
lowed the  stage-road,  and  no  courier  had 
deemed  it  worth  his  while  to  diverge  as  far 
as  the  rocky  ridge  which  formed  the  only 
pathway  to  the  mill.  That  day  Collinson's 
solitude  had  been  unbroken  even  by  the 
haggard  emigrant  from  the  valley,  with  his 
old  monotonous  story  of  hardship  and  pri- 
vation. The  birds  had  flown  nearer  to  the 
old  mill,  as  if  emboldened  by  the  unwonted 
quiet.  That  morning  there  had  been  the 
half  human  imprint  of  a  bear's  foot  in  the 
ooze  beside  the  mill  -  wheel ;  and  coming 
home  with  his  scant  stock  from  the  wood- 
land pasture,  he  had  found  a  golden  squirrel 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      Ill 

—  a  beautiful,  airy  embodiment  of  the 
brown  woods  itself  —  calmly  seated  on  his 
bar-counter,  with  a  biscuit  between  its  baby 
hands.  He  was  full  of  his  characteristic 
reveries  and  abstractions  that  afternoon ; 
falling  into  them  even  at  his  wood -pile, 
leaning  on  his  axe  —  so  still  that  an  emer- 
ald-throated lizard,  who  had  slid  upon  the 
log,  went  to  sleep  under  the  forgotten  stroke. 

But  at  nightfall  the  wind  arose,  —  at  first 
as  a  distant  murmur  along  the  hillside,  that 
died  away  before  it  reached  the  rocky  ledge ; 
then  it  rocked  the  tops  of  the  tall  redwoods 
behind  the  mill,  but  left  the  mill  and  the 
dried  leaves  that  lay  in  the  river-bed  undis- 
turbed. Then  the  murmur  was  prolonged, 
until  it  became  the  continuous  trouble  of 
some  far-off  sea,  and  at  last  the  wind  pos- 
sessed the  ledge  itself;  driving  the  smoke 
down  the  stumpy  chimney  of  the  mill,  rat- 
tling the  sun-warped  shingles  on  the  roof, 
stirring  the  inside  rafters  with  cool  breaths, 
and  singing  over  the  rough  projections  of 
the  outside  eaves.  At  nine  o'clock  he  rolled 
himself  up  in  his  blankets  before  the  fire, 
as  was  his  wont,  and  fell  asleep. 

It  was  past  midnight  when  he  was  awak- 


112      I7V  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

ened  by  the  familiar  clatter  of  boulders 
down  the  grade,  the  usual  simulation  of  a 
wild  rush  from  without  that  encompassed 
the  whole  mill,  even  to  that  heavy  impact 
against  the  door,  which  he  had  heard  once 
before.  In  this  he  recognized  merely  the 
ordinary  phenomena  of  his  experience,  and 
only  turned  over  to  sleep  again.  But  this 
time  the  door  rudely  fell  in  upon  him,  and  a 
figure  strode  over  his  prostrate  body,  with  a 
gun  leveled  at  his  head. 

He  sprang  sideways  for  his  own  weapon, 
wiiich  stood  by  the  hearth.  In  another 
second  that  action  would  have  been  his  last, 
and  the  solitude  of  Seth  Collinson  might 
have  remained  henceforward  unbroken  by 
any  mortal.  But  the  gun  of  the  first  figure 
was  knocked  sharply  upward  by  a  second 
man,  and  the  one  and  only  shot  fired  that 
night  sped  harmlessly  to  the  roof.  With 
the  report  he  felt  his  arms  gripped  tightly 
behind  him ;  through  the  smoke  he  saw 
dimly  that  the  room  was  filled  with  masked 
and  armed  men,  and  in  another  moment  he 
was  pinioned  and  thrust  into  his  empty 
armchair.  At  a  signal  three  of  the  men 
left  the  room,  and  he  could  hear  them 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      113 

exploring  the  other  rooms  and  outhouses. 
Then  the  two  men  who  had  been  standing 
beside  him  fell  back  with  a  certain  disci- 
plined precision,  as  a  smooth-chinned  man 
advanced  from  the  open  door.  Going  to 
the  bar,  he  poured  out  a  glass  of  whiskey, 
tossed  it  off  deliberately,  and,  standing  in 
front  of  Collinson,  with  his  shoulder  against 
the  chimney  and  his  hand  resting  lightly  on 
his  hip,  cleared  his  throat.  Had  Collinson 
been  an  observant  man,  he  would  have  no- 
ticed that  the  two  men  dropped  their  eyes 
and  moved  their  feet  with  a  half  impatient, 
perfunctory  air  of  waiting.  Had  he  wit- 
nessed the  stage-robbery,  he  would  have  rec- 
ognized in  the  smooth-faced  man  the  presence 
of  "  the  orator."  But  he  only  gazed  at  him 
with  his  dull,  imperturbable  patience. 

"  We  regret  exceedingly  to  have  to  use 
force  to  a  gentleman  in  his  own  house," 
began  the  orator  blandly ;  "•  but  we  feel  it 
our  duty  to  prevent  a  repetition  of  the  un- 
happy incident  which  occurred  as  we  en- 
tered. We  desire  that  you  should  answer 
a  few  questions,  and  are  deeply  grateful 
that  you  are  still  able  to  do  so,  —  which 
seemed  extremely  improbable  a  moment  or 


114      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

two  ago."  He  paused,  coughed,  and  leaned 
back  against  the  chimney.  "  How  many 
men  have  you  here  besides  yourself?  " 

"  Nary  one,"  said  Collinson. 

The  interrogator  glanced  at  the  other 
men,  who  had  reentered.  They  nodded 
significantly. 

"  Good!  "  he  resumed.  "You  have  told 
the  truth  —  an  excellent  habit,  and  one  that 
expedites  business.  Now,  is  there  a  room 
in  this  house  with  a  door  that  locks  ?  Your 
front  door  does  n't." 

"No." 

"  No  cellar  nor  outhouse  ?  " 

"No." 

"  We  regret  that ;  for  it  will  compel  us, 
much  against  our  wishes,  to  keep  you  bound 
as  you  are  for  the  present.  The  matter  is 
simply  this:  circumstances  of  a  very  press- 
ing nature  oblige  us  to  occupy  this  house 
for  a  few  days,  —  possibly  for  an  indefinite 
period.  We  respect  the  sacred  rites  of 
hospitality  too  much  to  turn  you  out  of  it ; 
indeed,  nothing  could  be  more  distasteful  to 
our  feelings  than  to  have  you,  in  your  own 
person,  spread  such  a  disgraceful  report 
through  the  chivalrous  Sierras.  We  must 


JW  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      115 

therefore  keep  you  a  close  prisoner,  —  open, 
however,  to  an  offer.  It  is  this :  we  pro- 
pose to  give  you  five  hundred  dollars  for 
this  property  as  it  stands,  provided  that  you 
leave  it,  and  accompany  a  pack-train  which 
will  start  to-morrow  morning  for  the  lower 
valley  as  far  as  Thompson's  Pass,  binding 
yourself  to  quit  the  State  for  three  months 
and  keep  this  matter  a  secret.  Three  of 
these  gentlemen  will  go  with  you.  They 
will  point  out  to  you  your  duty ;  their  shot- 
guns will  apprise  you  of  any  dereliction 
from  it.  What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"Who  yer  talking  to?"  said  Collinson 
in  a  dull  voice. 

"  You  remind  us,"  said  the  orator  suavely, 
"  that  we  have  not  yet  the  pleasure  of  know- 
ing." 

"  My  name  's  Seth  Collinson." 

There  was  a  dead  silence  in  the  room,  and 
every  eye  was  fixed  upon  the  two  men. 
The  orator's  smile  slightly  stiffened. 

"  Where  from  ?  "  he  continued  blandly. 

"  Mizzouri." 

"  A  very  good  place  to  go  back  to,  — 
through  Thompson's  Pass.  But  you  have  n't 
answered  our  proposal." 

Bret  Harte  13— V.  6 


116      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  I  reckon  I  don't  intend  to  sell  this 
house,  or  leave  it,"  said  Collinson  simply. 

"  I  trust  you  will  not  make  us  regret  the 
fortunate  termination  of  your  little  accident, 
Mr.  Collinson,"  said  the  orator  with  a  sin- 
gular smile.  "  May  I  ask  why  you  object 
to  selling  out  ?  Is  it  the  figure  ?  " 

"The  house  isn't  mine,"  said  Collinson 
deliberately.  "  1  built  this  yer  house  for 
my  wife  wot  I  left  in  Mizzouri.  It 's  hers. 
I  kalkilate  to  keep  it,  and  live  in  it  ontil  she 
comes  fur.it !  And  when  I  tell  ye  that  she 
is  dead,  ye  kin  reckon  just  what  chance  ye 
have  of  ever  gettin'  it." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  start  of  sen- 
sation in  the  room,  followed  by  a  silence  so 
profound  that  the  moaning  of  the  wind  on 
the  mountain-side  was  distinctly  heard.  A 
well-built  man,  with  a  mask  that  scarcely 
concealed  his  heavy  mustachios,  who  had 
been  standing  with  his  back  to  the  orator 
in  half  contemptuous  patience,  faced  around 
suddenly  and  made  a  step  forward  as  if  to 
come  between  the  questioner  and  questioned. 
A  voice  from  the  corner  ejaculated,  "  By 
G— d!" 

"  Silence,"  said  the  orator  sharply.    Then 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      117 

still  more  harshly  he  turned  to  the  others : 
"  Pick  him  up,  and  stand  him  outside  with 
a  guard ;  and  then  clear  out,  all  of  you  I  " 

The  prisoner  was  lifted  up  and  carried 
out ;  the  room  was  instantly  cleared ;  only 
the  orator  and  the  man  who  had  stepped 
forward  remained.  Simultaneously  they 
drew  the  masks  from  their  faces,  and  stood 
looking  at  each  other.  The  orator's  face 
was  smooth  and  corrupt  ^  the  full,  sensual 
lips  wrinkled  at  the  corners  with  a  sardonic 
humor ;  the  man  who  confronted  him  ap- 
peared to  be  physically  and  even  morally 
his  superior,  albeit  gloomy  and  discon- 
tented in  expression.  He  cast  a  rapid 
glance  around  the  room,  to  assure  himself 
that  they  were  alone ;  and  then,  straighten- 
ing his  eyebrows  as  he  backed  against  the 
chimney,  said :  — 

"D — d  if  I  like  this,  Chivers  I  It's 
your  affair  °,  but  it 's  mighty  low-down  work 
for  a  man  !  " 

"  You  might  have  made  it  easier  if  you 
hadn't  knocked  up  Bryce's  gun.  That 
would  have  settled  it,  though  no  one  guessed 
that  the  cur  was  her  husband,"  said  Chivers 
hotly. 


118      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  If  you  want  it  settled  that  way,  there  's 
still  time,"  returned  the  other  with  a  slight 
sneer.  "  You  've  only  to  tell  him  that 
you  're  the  man  that  ran  away  with  his  wife, 
and  you  '11  have  it  out  together,  right  on 
the  ledge  at  twelve  paces.  The  boys  will 
see  you  through.  In  fact,"  he  added,  his 
sneer  deepening,  "  I  rather  think  it 's  what 
they  're  expecting." 

"  Thank  you,  Mr.  Jack  Kiggs,"  said 
Chivers  sardonically.  "  I  dare  say  it  would 
be  more  convenient  to  some  people,  just 
before  our  booty  is  divided,  if  I  were  drilled 
through  by  a  blundering  shot  from  that 
hayseed ;  or  it  would  seem  right  to  your 
high-toned  chivalry  if  a  dead-shot  as  I  am 
knocked  over  a  man  who  may  have  never 
fired  a  revolver  before  ;  but  I  don't  exactly 
see  it  in  that  light,  either  as  a  man  or  as 
your  equal  partner.  I  don't  think  you 
quite  understand  me,  my  dear  Jack.  If 
you  don't  value  the  only  man  who  is  iden- 
tified in  all  California  as  the  leader  of  this 
gang  (the  man  whose  style  and  address 
has  made  it  popular  —  yes,  popular,  by 
G — d !  —  to  every  man,  woman,  and  child 
who  has  heard  of  him  ;  whose  sayings  and 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      119 

doings  are  quoted  by  the  newspapers  ;  whom 
people  run  risks  to  see;  who  has  got  the 
sympathy  of  the  crowd,  so  that  judges  hes- 
itate to  issue  warrants  and  constables  to 
serve  them),  —  if  you  don't  see  the  use  of 
such  a  man,  /  do.  Why,  there  's  a  column 
and  a  half  in  the  '  Sacramento  Union '  about 
our  last  job,  calling  me  the  '  Claude  Duval ' 
of  the  Sierras,  and  speaking  of  my  courtesy 
to  a  lady !  A  lady  !  —  Ms  wife,  by  G— d ! 
our  confederate !  My  dear  Jack,  you  not 
only  don't  know  business  values,  but,  'pon 
my  soul,  you  don't  seem  to  understand  hu- 
mor !  Ha,  ha  !  " 

For  all  his  cynical  levity,  for  all  his  af- 
fected exaggeration,  there  was  the  ring  of 
an  unmistakable  and  even  pitiable  vanity  in 
his  voice,  and  a  self-consciousness  that  suf- 
fused his  broad  cheeks  and  writhed  his  full 
mouth,  but  seemed  to  deepen  the  frown  on 
Biggs' s  face. 

"  You  know  the  woman  hates  it,  and 
would  bolt  if  she  could,  —  even  from  you," 
said  Riggs  gloomily.  "Think  what  she 
might  do  if  she  knew  her  husband  were 
here.  I  tell  you  she  holds  our  lives  in  the 
hollow  of  her  hand." 


120      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  That 's  your  fault,  Mr.  Jack  Riggs ; 
you  would  bring  your  sister  with  her  infer- 
nal convent  innocence  and  simplicity  into 
our  hut  in  the  hollow.  She  was  meek 
enough  before  that.  But  this  is  sheer  non- 
sense. I  have  no  fear  of  her.  The  woman 
don't  live  who  would  go  back  on  Godfrey 
Chivers  —  for  a  husband !  Besides,  she  went 
off  to  see  your  sister  at  the  convent  at  Santa 
Clara  as  soon  as  she  passed  those  bonds 
off  on  Charley  to  get  rid  of!  Think  of 
her  traveling  with  that  d — d  fool  lawyer  all 
the  way  to  Stockton,  and  his  bonds  (which 
we  had  put  back  in  her  bag)  alongside  of 
them  all  the  time,  and  he  telling  her  he  was 
going  to  stop  their  payment,  and  giving  her 
the  letter  to  mail  for  him  !  —  eh  ?  Well, 
we  '11  have  time  to  get  rid  of  her  husband 
before  she  gets  back.  If  he  don't  go  easy 
—  well"- 

"  None  of  that,  Chivers,  you  understand, 
once  for  all !  "  interrupted  Riggs  perempto- 
rily. "  If  you  cannot  see  that  your  making 
away  with  that  woman's  husband  would 
damn  that  boasted  reputation  you  make  so 
much  of  and  set  every  man's  hand  against 
us,  /  do,  and  I  won't  permit  it.  It 's  a 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       121 

rotten  business  enough,  —  our  coming  on 
him  as  we  have  ;  and  if  this  was  n't  the  only 
God-forsaken  place  where  we  could  divide 
our  stuff  without  danger  and  get  it  away  off 
the  highroads,  I  'd  pull  up  stakes  at  once." 

"Let  her  stay  at  the  convent,  then,  and 
be  d — d  to  her,"  said  Chivers  roughly. 
"  She  '11  be  glad  enough  to  be  with  your 
sister  again ;  and  there 's  no  fear  of  her 
being  touched  there." 

"But  I  want  to  put  an  end  to  that,  too," 
returned  Riggs  sharply.  "  I  do  not  choose 
to  have  my  sister  any  longer  implicated 
with  our  confederate  or  your  mistress.  No 
more  of  that  —  you  understand  me  ?  " 

The  two  men  had  been  standing  side  by 
side,  leaning  against  the  chimney.  Chivers 
now  faced  his  companion,  his  full  lips 
wreathed  into  an  evil  smile. 

"I  think  I  understand  you,  Mr.  Jack 
Riggs,  or  —  I  beg  your  pardon  —  Rivers, 
or  whatever  your  real  name  may  be,"  he 
began  slowly.  "  Sadie  Collinson,  the  mis- 
tress of  Judge  Godfrey  Chivers,  formerly  of 
Kentucky,  was  good  enough  company  for 
you  the  day  you  dropped  down  upon  us  in 
our  little  house  in  the  hollow  of  Galloper's 


122      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Ridge.  We  were  living  quite  an  idyllic, 
pastoral  life  there,  were  n't  we  ?  —  she  and 
me ;  hidden  from  the  censorious  eye  of 
society  and  —  Collinson,  obeying  only  the 
voice  of  Nature  and  the  little  birds.  It  was 
a  happy  time,"  he  went  on  with  a  grimly 
affected  sigh,  disregarding  his  companion's 
impatient  gesture.  "  You  were  young  then, 
waging  your  fight  against  society,  and  fresh 
—  uncommonly  fresh,  I  may  say  —  from 
your  first  exploit.  And  a  very  stupid, 
clumsy,  awkward  exploit,  too,  Mr.  Riggs,  if 
you  will  pardon  my  freedom.  You  wanted 
money,  and  you  had  an  ugly  temper,  and 
you  had  lost  both  to  a  gambler;  so  you 
stopped  the  coach  to  rob  him,  and  had  to 
kill  two  men  to  get  back  your  paltry  thou- 
sand dollars,  after  frightening  a  whole 
coach-load  of  passengers,  and  letting  Wells, 
Fargo,  and  Co.'s  treasure-box  with  fifty 
thousand  dollars  in  it  slide.  It  was  a  stupid, 
a  blundering,  a  cruel  act,  Mr.  Riggs,  and 
I  think  I  told  you  so  at  the  time.  It  was 
a  waste  of  energy  and  material,  and  made 
you,  not  a  hero,  but  a  stupid  outcast !  I 
think  I  proved  this  to  you,  and  showed  you 
how  it  might  have  been  done." 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      123 


"  Dry    up    on    that,"    interrupted 
impatiently.     "  You  offered  to  become  my 
partner,  and  you  did." 

"  Pardon  me.  Observe,  my  impetuous 
friend,  that  my  contention  is  that  you  — 
you  —  poisoned  our  blameless  Eden  in  the 
hollow ;  that  you  were  our  serpent,  and  that 
this  Sadie  Collinson,  over  whom  you  have 
become  so  fastidious,  whom  you  knew  as  my 
mistress,  was  obliged  to  become  our  confed- 
erate. You  did  not  object  to  her  when  we 
formed  our  gang,  and  her  house  became 
our  hiding-place  and  refuge.  You  took 
advantage  of  her  woman's  wit  and  fine  ad- 
dress in  disposing  of  our  booty ;  you  availed 
yourself,  with  the  rest,  of  the  secrets  she 
gathered  as  my  mistress,  just  as  you  were 
willing  to  profit  by  the  superior  address  of 
her  paramour  —  your  humble  servant  — 
when  your  own  face  was  known  to  the  sher- 
iff, and  your  old  methods  pronounced  brutal 
and  vulgar.  Excuse  me,  but  I  must  insist 
upon  this,  and  that  you  dropped  down  upon 
me  and  Sadie  Collinson  exactly  as  you  have 
dropped  down  here  upon  her  husband." 

"  Enough  of  this !  "  said  Riggs  angrily. 
"  I  admit  the  woman  is  part  and  parcel  of 


124      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

the  gang,  and  gets  her  share,  —  or  you  get 
it  for  her,"  he  added  sneeringly ;  "  but  that 
does  n't  permit  her  to  mix  herself  with  my 
family  affairs." 

"  Pardon  me  again,"  interrupted  Chivers 
softly.  "  Your  memory,  my  dear  Riggs,  is 
absurdly  defective.  We  knew  that  you  had 
a  young  sister  in  the  mountains,  from  whom 
you  discreetly  wished  to  conceal  your  real 
position.  We  respected,  and  I  trust  shall 
always  respect,  your  noble  reticence.  But 
do  you  remember  the  night  you  were  taking 
her  to  school  at  Santa  Clara,  —  two  nights 
before  the  fire,  —  when  you  were  recognized 
on  the  road  near  Skinner's,  and  had  to  fly 
with  her  for  your  life,  and  brought  her  to 
us,  —  your  two  dear  old  friends,  '  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Barker  of  Chicago,'  who  had  a  pas- 
toral home  in  the  forest?  You  remember 
how  we  took  her  in,  —  yes,  doubly  took  her 
in,  —  and  kept  your  secret  from  her  ?  And 
do  you  remember  how  this  woman  (this 
mistress  of  mine  and  our  confederate),  while 
we  were  away,  saved  her  from  the  fire  on 
our  only  horse,  caught  the  stage-coach,  and 
brought  her  to  the  convent?  " 

Riggs  walked  towards  the  window,  turned, 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.     125 

and  coming  back,  held  out  his  hand.  "  Yes, 
she  did  it ;  and  I  thanked  her,  as  I  thank 
you."  He  stopped  and  hesitated,  as  the 
other  took  his  hand.  "  But,  blank  it  all, 
Chivers,  don't  you  see  that  Alice  is  a  young 
girl,  and  this  woman  is  —  you  know  what 
I  mean.  Somebody  might  recognize  her, 
and  that  would  be  worse  for  Alice  than  even 
if  it  were  known  what  Alice's  brother  was. 
G — d!  if  these  two  things  were  put  to- 
gether, the  girl  would  be  ruined  forever." 

"Jack,"  said  Chivers  suddenly,  "  you  want 
this  woman  out  of  the  way.  Well  —  dash 
it  all !  —  she  nearly  separated  us,  and  I  '11 
be  frank  with  you  as  between  man  and 
man.  I  '11  give  her  up !  There  are  women 
enough  in  the  world,  and  hang  it,  we  're 
partners,  after  all !  " 

"Then  you  abandon  her?"  said  Riggs 
slowly,  his  eyes  fixed  on  his  companion. 

"  Yes.  She  ?s  getting  a  little  too  maun- 
dering lately.,  It  will  be  a  ticklish  job  to 
manage,  for  she  knows  too  much ;  but  it  will 
be  done.  There 's  my  hand  on  it." 

Riggs  not  only  took  no  notice  of  the  prof- 
fered hand,  but  his  former  look  of  discon- 
tent came  back  with  an  ill-concealed  addi- 
tion of  loathing  and  contempt. 


126      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  We  '11  drop  that  now,"  he  said  shortly ; 
"we've  talked  here  alone  long  enough 
already.  The  men  are  waiting  for  us."  He 
turned  on  his  heel  into  the  inner  room, 
Chivers  remained  standing  by  the  chimney 
until  his  stiffened  smile  gave  way  under  the 
working  of  his  writhing  lips ;  then  he 
turned  to  the  bar,  poured  out  and  swallowed 
another  glass  of  whiskey  at  a  single  gulp, 
and  followed  his  partner  with  half-closed 
lids  that  scarcely  veiled  his  ominous  eyes. 

The  men,  with  the  exception  of  the  senti- 
nels stationed  on  the  rocky  ledge  and  the 
one  who  was  guarding  the  unfortunate  Col- 
linson,  were  drinking  and  gambling  away 
their  perspective  gains  around  a  small  pile 
of  portmanteaus  and  saddle-bags,  heaped  in 
the  centre  of  the  room.  They  contained  the 
results  of  their  last  successes,  but  one  pair 
of  saddle-bags  bore  the  mildewed  appearance 
of  having  been  cached,  or  buried,  some  time 
before.  Most  of  their  treasure  was  in  pack- 
ages of  gold  dust ;  and  from  the  conversation 
that  ensued,  it  appeared  that,  owing  to  the 
difficulties  of  disposing  of  it  in  the  moun- 
tain towns,  the  plan  was  to  convey  it  by 
ordinary  pack  mule  to  the  unfrequented 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      127 

valley,  and  thence  by  an  emigrant  wagon,  on 
the  old  emigrant  trail,  to  the  southern  coun- 
ties, where  it  could  be  no  longer  traced. 
Since  the  recent  robberies,  the  local  express 
companies  and  bankers  had  refused  to  receive 
it,  except  the  owners  were  known  and  identi- 
fied. There  had  been  but  one  box  of  coin, 
which  had  already  been  speedily  divided  up 
among  the  band.  Drafts,  bills,  bonds,  and 
valuable  papers  had  been  usually  intrusted 
to  one  "  Charley,"  who  acted  as  a  flying 
messenger  to  a  corrupt  broker  in  Sacramento, 
who  played  the  role  of  the  band's  "  fence." 
It  had  been  the  duty  of  Chivers  to  control 
this  delicate  business,  even  as  it  had  been  his 
peculiar  function  to  open  all  the  letters  and 
documents.  This  he  had  always  lightened 
by  characteristic  levity  and  sarcastic  com- 
ments on  the  private  revelations  of  the  con- 
tents. The  rough,  ill-spelt  letter  of  the 
miner  to  his  wife,  inclosing  a  draft,  or  the 
more  sentimental  effusion  of  an  emigrant 
swain  to  his  sweetheart,  with  the  gift  of  a 
"  specimen,"  had  always  received  due  atten- 
tion at  the  hands  of  this  elegant  humorist. 
But  the  operation  was  conducted  to-night 
with  business  severity  and  silence.  The  two 


128      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

leaders  sat  opposite  to  each  other,  in  what 
might  have  appeared  to  the  rest  of  the  band 
a  scarcely  veiled  surveillance  of  each  other's 
actions.  When  the  examination  was  con- 
cluded, and  the  more  valuable  inclosures  put 
aside,  the  despoiled  letters  were  carried  to 
the  fire  and  heaped  upon  the  coals.  Pres- 
ently the  chimney  added  its  roar  to  the 
moaning  of  the  distant  hillside,  a  few  sparks 
leaped  up  and  died  out  in  the  midnight  air, 
as  if  the  pathos  and  sentiment  of  the  un- 
conscious correspondents  had  exhaled  with 
them. 

"  That  's  a  d — d  foolish  thing  to  do," 
growled  French  Pete  over  his  cards. 

"Why  ?  "  demanded  Chivers  sharply. 

"Why?  —  why,  it  makes  a  flare  in  the 
sky  that  any  scout  can  see,  and  a  scent  for 
him  to  follow." 

"We  're  four  miles  from  any  traveled 
road,"  returned  Chivers  contemptuously, 
"  and  the  man  who  could  see  that  glare  and 
smell  that  smoke  would  be  on  his  way  here 
already." 

"  That  reminds  me  that  that  chap  you  've 
tied  up  —  that  Collinson  —  allows  he  wants 
to  see  you,"  continued  French  Pete. 


UT  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      129 

"  To  see  me  !  "  repeated  Chivers.  "  You 
mean  the  Captain  ?  " 

"  I  reckon  he  means  you"  returned 
French  Pete  ;  "  he  said  the  man  who  talked 
so  purtjo" 

The  men  looked  at  each  other  with  a 
smile  of  anticipation,  and  put  down  their 
cards.  Chivers  walked  towards  the  door ; 
one  or  two  rose  to  their  feet  as  if  to  follow, 
but  Riggs  stopped  them  peremptorily.  "  Sit 
down,"  he  said  roughly ;  then,  as  Chivers 
passed  him,  he  added  to  him  in  a  lower  tone, 
"  Remember." 

Slightly  squaring  his  shoulders  and  open- 
ing his  coat,  to  permit  a  rhetorical  freedom, 
which  did  not,  however,  prevent  him  from 
keeping  touch  with  the  butt  of  his  revolver, 
Chivers  stepped  into  the  open  air.  Collin- 
son  had  been  moved  to  the  shelter  of  an 
overhang  of  the  roof,  probably  more  for  the 
comfort  of  the  guard,  who  sat  cross-legged 
on  the  ground  near  him,  than  for  his  own. 
Dismissing  the  man  with  a  gesture,  Chivers 
straightened  himself  before  his  captive. 

"  We  deeply  regret  that  your  unfortunate 
determination,  my  dear  sir,  has  been  the 
means  of  depriving  us  of  the  pleasure  of. 


130       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

your  company,  and  you  of  your  absolute 
freedom ;  but  may  we  cherish  the  hope  that 
your  desire  to  see  me  may  indicate  some 
change  in  your  opinion  ?  " 

By  the  light  of  the  sentry's  lantern  left 
upon  the  ground,  Chivers  could  see  that  Col- 
linson's  face  wore  a  slightly  troubled  and 
even  apologetic  expression. 

"  I  've  bin  thiiikin',"  said  Collinson,  rais- 
ing his  eyes  to  his  captor  with  a  singularly 
new  and  shy  admiration  in  them,  "  mebbee 
not  so  much  of  wot  you  said,  ez  how  you  said 
it,  and  it 's  kinder  bothered  me,  sittin'  here, 
that  I  ain't  bin  actin'  to  you  boys  quite  on 
the  square.  I  've  said  to  myself,  '  Collinson, 
thar  ain't  another  house  betwixt  Bald  Top 
and  Skinner's  whar  them  fellows  kin  get  a 
bite  or  a  drink  to  help  themselves,  and  you 
ain't  offered  'em  neither.  It  ain't  no  matter 
who  they  are  or  how  they  came:  whether 
they  came  crawling  along  the  road  from  the 
valley,  or  dropped  down  upon  you  like  them 
rocks  from  the  grade ;  yere  they  are,  and 
it 's  your  duty,  ez  long  ez  you  keep  this  yer 
house  for  your  wife  in  trust,  so  to  speak,  for 
wanderers.'  And  I  ain't  forgettin'  yer 
ginerel  soft  style  and  easy  gait  with  me  when 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       131 

you  kem  here.  It  ain't  every  man  as  could 
walk  into  another  man's  house  arter  the 
owner  of  it  had  grabbed  a  gun,  ez  soft-speak- 
in',  ez  overlooking  and  ez  perlite  ez  you. 
I  've  acted  mighty  rough  and  low-down,  and 
I  know  it.  And  I  sent  for  you  to  say  that 
you  and  your  folks  kin  use  this  house  and 
all  that 's  in  it  ez  long  ez  you  're  in  trouble. 
I  've  told  you  why  I  could  n't  sell  the  house 
to  ye,  and  why  I  could  n't  leave  it.  But  ye 
kin  use  it,  and  while  ye  're  here,  and  when 
you  go,  Collinson  don't  tell  nobody.  I  don't 
know  what  ye  mean  by  *  binding  myself '  to 
keep  your  secret;  when  Collinson  says  a 
thing  he  sticks  to  it,  and  when  he  passes  his 
word  with  a  man,  or  a  man  passes  his  word 
with  him,  it  don't  need  no  bit  of  paper." 

There  was  no  doubt  of  its  truth.  In  the 
grave,  upraised  eyes  of  his  prisoner,  Chivers 
saw  the  certainty  that  he  could  trust  him. 
even  far  more  than  he  could  trust  any  one 
within  the  house  he  had  just  quitted.  But 
this  very  certainty,  for  all  its  assurance  of 
safety  to  himself,  filled  him,  not  with  re- 
morse, which  might  have  been  an  evanes- 
cent emotion,  but  with  a  sudden  alarming 
and  terrible  consciousness  of  being  in  the 


132       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

presence  of  a  hitherto  unknown  and  immea- 
surable power !  He  had  no  pity  for  the  man 
who  trusted  him ;  he  had  110  sense  of  shame 
in  taking  advantage  of  it ;  he  even  felt  an 
intellectual  superiority  in  this  want  of  saga- 
city in  his  dupe ;  but  he  still  felt  in  some  way 
defeated,  insulted,  shocked,  and  frightened. 
At  first,  like  all  scoundrels,  he  had  measured 
the  man  by  himself  ;  was  suspicious  and  pre- 
pared for  rivalry ;  but  the  grave  trutlif ulness 
of  Collinson' s  eyes  left  him  helpless.  He 
was  terrified  by  this  unknown  factor.  The 
right  that  contends  and  fights  often  stimulates 
its  adversary;  the  right  that  yields  leaves 
the  victor  vanquished.  Chivers  could  even 
have  killed  Collinson  in  his  vague  discom- 
fiture, but  he  had  a  terrible  consciousness 
that  there  was  something  behind  him  that  he 
could  not  make  way  with.  That  was  why 
this  accomplished  rascal  felt  his  flaccid  cheeks 
grow  purple  and  his  glib  tongue  trip  before 
his  captive. 

But  Collinson,  more  occupied  with  his 
own  shortcomings,  took  no  note  of  this,  and 
Chivers  quickly  recovered  his  wits,  if  not  his 
former  artificiality.  "  All  right,"  he  said 
quickly,  with  a  hurried  glance  at  the  door 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       133 

behind  him.  "  Now  that  you  think  better 
of  it,  I  '11  be  frank  with  you,  and  tell  you 
I  'm  your  friend.  You  understand,  —  your 
friend.  Don't  talk  much  to  those  men  — 
don't  give  yourself  away  to  them ; "  he 
laughed  this  time  in  absolute  natural  embar- 
rassment. "  Don't  talk  about  your  wife,  and 
this  house,  but  just  say  you  've  made  the 
thing  up  with  me,  —  with  me,  you  know, 
and  I  '11  see  you  through."  An  idea,  as  yet 
vague,  that  he  could  turn  Collinsoii's  un- 
expected docility  to  his  own  purposes,  pos- 
sessed him  even  in  his  embarrassment,  and 
he  was  still  more  strangely  conscious  of  his 
inordinate  vanity  gathering  a  fearful  joy 
from  Collinson's  evident  admiration.  It 
was  heightened  by  his  captive's  next  words. 
"  Ef  I  was  n't  tied  I  'd  shake  hands  with 
ye  011  that.  You  're  the  kind  o'  man,  Mr. 
Chivers,  that  I  cottoned  to  from  the  first. 
Ef  this  house  was  n't  hers,  I  'd  a'  bin  tempted 
to  cotton  to  yer  offer,  too,  and  mebbee  made 
yer  one  myself,  for  it  seems  to  me  your 
style  and  mine  would  sorter  jibe  together. 
But  I  see  you  sabe  what 's  in  my  mind,  and 
make  allowance.  We  don't  want  no  bit  o' 
paper  to  shake  hands  on  that.  Your  secret 


134      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

and  your  folk's  secret  is  mine,  and  I  don't 
blab  that  any  more  than  I  'd  blab  to  them 
wot  you  've  just  told  me." 

Under  a  sudden  impulse,  Chivers  leaned 
forward,  and,  albeit  with  somewhat  unsteady 
hands  and  an  embarrassed  will,  untied  the 
cords  that  held  Collinson  in  his  chair.  As 
the  freed  man  stretched  himself  to  his  full 
height,  he  looked  gravely  down  into  the 
bleared  eyes  of  his  captor,  and  held  out  his 
strong  right  hand.  Chivers  took  it.  Whether 
there  was  some  occult  power  in  Collinson's 
honest  grasp,  I  know  not ;  but  there  sprang 
up  in  Chivers's  agile  mind  the  idea  that  a 
good  way  to  get  rid  of  Mrs.  Collinson  was  to 
put  her  in  the  way  of  her  husband's  finding 
her,  and  for  an  instant,  in  the  contemplation 
of  that  idea,  this  supreme  rascal  absolutely 
felt  an  embarrassing  glow  of  virtue. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

THE  astonishment  of  Preble  Key  on  rec- 
ognizing the  gateway  into  which  the  mys- 
terious lady  had  vanished  was  so  great  that 
he  was  at  first  inclined  to  believe  her  entry 
there  a  mere  trick  of  his  fancy.  That  the 
confederate  of  a  gang  of  robbers  should  be 
admitted  to  the  austere  recesses  of  the  con- 
vent, with  a  celerity  that  bespoke  familiar- 
ity, was  incredible.  He  again  glanced  up 
and  down  the  length  of  the  shadowed  but 
still  visible  wall.  There  was  no  one  there. 
The  wall  itself  contained  no  break  or  recess 
in  which  one  could  hide,  and  this  was  the 
only  gateway.  The  opposite  side  of  the 
street  in  the  full  moonlight  stared  emptily. 
No !  Unless  she  were  an  illusion  herself 
and  his  whole  chase  a  dream,  she  must  have 
entered  here. 

But  the  chase  was  not  hopeless.  He  had 
at  least  tracked  her  to  a  place  where  she 
could  be  identified.  It  was  not  a  hotel, 
which  she  could  leave  at  any  moment  un- 


136      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

observed.  Though  he  could  not  follow  her 
and  penetrate  its  seclusion  now,  he  could 
later  —  thanks  to  his  old  associations  with 
the  padres  of  the  contiguous  college  —  gain 
an  introduction  to  the  Lady  Superior  on 
some  pretext.  She  was  safe  there  that 
night.  He  turned  away  with  a  feeling  of 
relief.  The  incongruity  of  her  retreat  as- 
sumed a  more  favorable  aspect  to  his  hopes. 
He  looked  at  the  hallowed  walls  and  the 
slumbering  peacefulness  of  the  gnarled  old 
trees  that  hid  the  convent,  and  a  gentle 
reminiscence  of  his  youth  stole  over  him. 
It  was  not  the  first  time  that  he  had  gazed 
wistfully  upon  that  chaste  refuge  where, 
perhaps,  the  bright  eyes  that  he  had  fol- 
lowed in  the  quaint  school  procession  under 
the  leafy  Alameda  in  the  afternoon,  were 
at  last  closed  in  gentle  slumber.  There 
was  the  very  grille  through  which  the 
wicked  Conchita  —  or,  was  it  Dolores?  — 
had  shot  her  Parthian  glance  at  the  linger- 
ing student.  And  the  man  of  thirty-five, 
prematurely  gray  and  settled  in  fortune, 
smiled  as  lie  turned  away,  and  forgot  the 
adventuress  of  thirty  who  had  brought  him 
there. 


IZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       137 

The  next  morning  he  was  up  betimes 
and  at  the  college  of  San  Jose.  Father 
Cipriano,  a  trifle  more  snuffy  and  aged, 
remembered  with  delight  his  old  pupil. 
Ah!  it  was  true,  then,  that  he  had  become 
a  mining  president,  and  that  was  why  his 
hair  was  gray;  but  he  trusted  that  Don 
Preble  had  not  forgot  that  this  was  not  all 
of  life,  and  that  fortune  brought  great  re- 
sponsibilities and  cares.  But  what  was  this, 
then  ?  He  had  thought  of  bringing  out 
some  of  his  relations  from  the  States,  and 
placing  a  niece  in  the  convent.  That  was 
good  and  wise.  Ah,  yes.  For  education 
in  this  new  country,  one  must  turn  to  the 
church.  And  he  would  see  the  Lady  Su- 
perior ?  Ah !  that  was  but  the  twist  of 
one's  finger  and  the  lifting  of  a  latch  to  a 
grave  superintendent  and  a  gray  head  like 
that.  Of  course,  he  had  not  forgotten  the 
convent  and  the  young  seuoritas,  nor  the 
discipline  and  the  suspended  holidays.  Ah! 
it  was  a  special  grace  of  our  Lady  that  he, 
Father  Cipriano,  had  not  been  worried  into 
his  grave  by  those  foolish  muchachos.  Yet, 
when  he  had  extinguished  a  snuffy  chuckle 
in  his  red  bandana  handkerchief,  Key 


138      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

knew  that  he  would  accompany  him  to  the 
convent  that  noon. 

It  was  with  a  slight  stirring  of  shame 
over  his  elaborate  pretext  that  he  passed 
the  gate  of  the  Sacred  Heart  with  the  good 
father.  But  it  is  to  be  feared  that  he  speed- 
ily forgot  that  in  the  unexpected  informa- 
tion that  it  elicited.  The  Lady  Superior 
was  gracious,  and  even  enthusiastic.  Ah, 
yes,  it  was  a  growing  custom  of  the  Ameri- 
can caballeros  —  who  had  no  homes,  nor 
yet  time  to  create  any  —  to  bring  their 
sisters,  wards,  and  nieces  here,  and  —  with 
a  dove-like  side-glance  towards  Key  —  even 
the  young  senoritas  they  wished  to  fit  for 
their  Christian  brides!  Unlike  the  cabal- 
lero,  there  were  many  business  men  so  im- 
mersed in  their  affairs  that  they  could  not 
find  time  for  a  personal  examination  of  the 
convent,  —  which  was  to  be  regretted,  —  but 
who,  trusting  to  the  reputation  of  the  Sacred 
Heart  and  its  good  friends,  simply  sent  the 
young  lady  there  by  some  trusted  female 
companion.  Notably  this  was  the  case  of 
the  Senor  Rivers,  —  did  Don  Preble  ever 
know  him  ?  —  a  great  capitalist  in  the 
Sierras,  whose  sweet  young  sister,  a  naive, 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      139 

ingenuous  creature,  was  the  pride  of  the 
convent.  Of  course,  it  was  better  that  it 
was  so.  Discipline  and  seclusion  had  to  be 
maintained.  The  young  girl  should  look 
upon  this  as  her  home.  The  rules  for  vis- 
itors were  necessarily  severe.  It  was  rare 
indeed  —  except  in  a  case  of  urgency,  such 
as  happened  last  night  —  that  even  a  lady, 
unless  the  parent  of  a  scholar,  was  admitted 
to  the  hospitality  of  the  convent.  And  this 
lady  was  only  the  friend  of  that  same  sister 
of  the  American  capitalist,  although  she  was 
the  one  who  had  brought  her  there.  No, 
she  was  not  a  relation.  Perhaps  Don  Preble 
had  heard  of  a  Mrs.  Barker,  —  the  friend  of 
Rivers  of  the  Sierras.  It  was  a  queer  com- 
bination of  names.  But  what  will  you? 
The  names  of  Americanos  mean  nothing. 
And  Don  Preble  knows  them  not.  Ah! 
possibly?  —  good!  The  lady  would  be 
remembered,  being  tall,  dark,  and  of  fine 
presence,  though  sad.  A  few  hours  earlier 
and  Don  Preble  could  have  judged  for  him- 
self, for,  as  it  were,  she  might  have  passed 
through  this  visitors'  room.  But  she  was 
gone  —  departed  by  the  coach.  It  was 
from  a  telegram  —  those  heathen  contri- 


140      iy  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

vances  that  blurt  out  things  to  you,  with 
never  an  excuse,  nor  a  smile,  nor  a  kiss  of 
the  hand  I  For  her  part,  she  never  let  her 
scholars  receive  them,  but  opened  them 
herself,  and  translated  them  in  a  Christian 
spirit,  after  due  preparation,  at  her  leisure. 
And  it  was  this  telegram  that  made  the 
Senora  Barker  go,  or,  without  doubt,  she 
would  have  of  herself  told  to  the  Don 
Preble,  her  compatriot  of  the  Sierras,  how 
good  the  convent  was  for  his  niece. 

Stung  by  the  thought  that  this  woman 
had  again  evaded  him,  and  disconcerted 
and  confused  by  the  scarcely  intelligible 
information  he  had  acquired,  Key  could 
with  difficulty  maintain  his  composure. 
"  The  caballero  is  tired  of  his  long  pasear" 
said  the  Lady  Superior  gently-  "  We  will 
have  a  glass  of  wine  in  the  lodge  waiting- 
room."  She  led  the  way  from  the  reception 
room  to  the  outer  door,  but  stopped  at  the 
sound  of  approaching  footsteps  and  rustling 
muslin  along  the  gravel  walk.  "  The  second 
class  are  going  out,"  she  said,  as  a  gentle 
procession  of  white  frocks,  led  by  two  nuns, 
filed  before  the  gateway.  "  We  will  wait 
until  they  have  passed.  But  the  seuor  can 
see  that  my  children  do  not  look  unhappy.1" 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       141 

They  certainly  looked  very  cheerful,  ak 
though  they  had  halted  before  the  gateway 
with  a  little  of  the  demureness  of  young 
people  who  know  they  are  overlooked  by 
authority,  and  had  bumped  against  each 
other  with  affected  gravity.  Somewhat 
ashamed  of  his  useless  deception,  and  the 
guileless  simplicity  of  the  good  Lady  Supe- 
rior, Key  hesitated  and  began :  "  I  am  afraid 
that  I  am  really  giving  you  too  much 
trouble,"  and  suddenly  stopped. 

For  as  his  voice  broke  the  demure  silence, 
one  of  the  nearest  —  a  young  girl  of  appar- 
ently seventeen  —  turned  towards  him  with 
a  quick  and  an  apparently  irresistible  im- 
pulse, and  as  quickly  turned  away  again. 
But  in  that  instant  Key  caught  a  glimpse  of 
a  face  that  might  not  only  have  thrilled  him 
in  its  beauty,  its  freshness,  but  in  some 
vague  suggestiveness.  Yet  it  was  not  that 
which  set  his  pulses  beating ;  it  was  the  look 
of  joyous  recognition  set  in  the  parted  lips 
and  sparkling  eyes,  the  glow  of  childlike 
innocent  pleasure  that  mantled  the  sweet 
young  face,  the  frank  confusion  of  sud- 
denly realized  expectancy  and  longing.  A 
great  truth  gripped  his  throbbing  heart,  and 


142       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

held  it  still.  It  was  the  face  that  he  had 
seen  in  the  hollow ! 

The  movement  of  the  young  girl  was  too 
marked  to  escape  the  eye  of  the  Lady  Su- 
perior, though  she  had  translated  it  differ- 
ently. "  You  must  not  believe  our  young 
ladies  are  all  so  rude,  Don  Preble,"  she 
said  dryly ;  "  though  our  dear  child  has 
still  some  of  the  mountain  freedom.  And 
this  is  the  Senor  Rivers's  sister.  But  possi- 
bly—  who  knows?"  she  said  gently,  yet 
with  a  sudden  sharpness  in  her  clear  eyes, 
— "  perhaps  she  recognized  in  your  voice  a 
companion  of  her  brother." 

Luckily  for  Key,  the  shock  had  been  so 
sudden  and  overpowering  that  he  showed 
none  of  the  lesser  symptoms  of  agitation  or 
embarrassment.  In  this  revelation  of  a 
secret,  that  he  now  instinctively  felt  was 
bound  up  with  his  own  future  happiness,  he 
exhibited  none  of  the  signs  of  a  discovered 
intriguer  or  unmasked  Lothario.  He  said 
quietly  and  coldly :  "I  am  afraid  I  have 
not  the  pleasure  of  knowing  the  young  lady, 
and  certainly  have  never  before  addressed 
her."  Yet  he  scarcely  heard  his  compan- 
ion's voice,  and  answered  mechanically,  see- 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       143 

ing  only  before  him  the  vision  of  the  girl's 
bewitching  face,  in  its  still  more  bewitch- 
ing consciousness  of  his  presence.  With  all 
that  he  now  knew,  or  thought  he  knew, 
came  a  strange  delicacy  of  asking  further 
questions,  a  vague  fear  of  compromising  her, 
a  quick  impatience  of  his  present  deception ; 
even  his  whole  quest  of  her  seemed  now  to 
be  a  profanation,  for  which  he  must  ask 
her  forgiveness.  He  longed  to  be  alone  to 
recover  himself.  Even  the  temptation  to 
linger  on  some  pretext,  and  wait  for  her 
return  and  another  glance  from  her  joyous 
eyes,  was  not  as  strong  as  his  conviction  of 
the  necessity  of  cooler  thought  and  action. 
He  had  met  his  fate  that  morning,  for  good 
or  ill ;  that  was  all  he  knew.  As  soon  as 
he  could  decently  retire,  he  thanked  the 
Lady  Superior,  promised  to  communicate 
with  her  later,  and  taking  leave  of  Fa- 
ther Cipriano,  found  himself  again  in  the 
street. 

Who  was  she,  what  was  she,  and  what 
meant  her  joyous  recognition  of  him  ?  It 
is  to  be  feared  that  it  was  the  last  question 
that  affected  him  most,  now  that  he  felt  that 
he  must  have  really  loved  her  from  the  first. 


144      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Had  she  really  seen  him  before,  and  had 
been  as  mysteriously  impressed  as  he  was? 
It  was  not  the  reflection  of  a  conceited  man, 
for  Key  had  not  that  kind  of  vanity,  and 
he  had  already  touched  the  humility  that  is 
at  the  base  of  any  genuine  passion.  But 
he  would  not  think  of  that  now.  He  had 
established  the  identity  of  the  other  woman, 
as  being  her  companion  in  the  house  in  the 
hollow  on  that  eventful  night ;  but  it  was 
her  profile  that  he  had  seen  at  the  window. 
The  mysterious  brother  Rivers  might  have 
been  one  of  the  robbers,  —  perhaps  the  one 
who  accompanied  Mrs.  Barker  to  San  Jose. 
But  it  was  plain  that  the  young  girl  had 
no  complicity  with  the  actions  of  the  gang, 
whatever  might  have  been  her  companion's 
confederation.  In  the  prescience  of  a  true 
lover,  he  knew  that  she  must  have  been 
deceived  and  kept  in  utter  ignorance  of  it. 
There  was  no  look  of  it  in  her  lovely,  guile- 
less eyes ;  her  very  impulsiveness  and  in- 
genuousness would  have  long  since  betrayed 
the  secret.  Was  it  left  for  him,  at  this  very 
outset  of  his  passion,  to  be  the  one  to  tell 
her?  Could  he  bear  to  see  those  frank, 
beautiful  eyes  dimmed  with  shame  and  sor- 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      145 

row  ?  His  own  grew  moist.  Another  idea 
began  to  haunt  him.  Would  it  not  be  wiser, 
even  more  manly,  for  him  —  a  man  over 
twice  her  years  —  to  leave  her  alone  with 
her  secret,  and  so  pass  out  of  her  innocent 
young  life  as  chancefully  as  he  had  entered 
it  ?  But  was  it  altogether  chanceful  ?  Was 
there  not  in  her  innocent  happiness  in  him 
a  recognition  of  something  in  him  better 
than  he  had  dared  to  think  himself?  It 
was  the  last  conceit  of  the  humility  of  love. 
He  reached  his  hotel  at  last,  unresolved, 
perplexed,  yet  singularly  happy.  The  clerk 
handed  him,  in  passing,  a  business-looking 
letter,  formally  addressed.  Without  open- 
ing it,  he  took  it  to  his  room,  and  throwing 
himself  listlessly  on  a  chair  by  the  window 
again  tried  to  think.  But  the  atmosphere 
of  his  room  only  recalled  to  him  the  mys- 
terious gift  he  had  found  the  day  before  on 
his  pillow.  He  felt  now  with  a  thrill  that 
it  must  have  been  from  her.  How  did  she 
convey  it  there  ?  She  would  not  have  in- 
trusted it  to  Mrs.  Barker.  The  idea  struck 
him  now  as  distastefully  as  it  seemed  im- 
probable. Perhaps  she  had  been  here  her- 
self with  her  companion  —  the  convent  some- 


146       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

times  made  that  concession  to  a  relative  or 
well-known  friend.  He  recalled  the  fact 
that  he  had  seen  Mrs.  Barker  enter  the 
hotel  alone,  after  the  incident  of  the  open- 
ing door,  while  he  was  leaning  over  the 
balustrade.  It  was  she  who  was  alone  then, 
and  had  recognized  his  voice ;  and  he  had 
not  known  it.  She  was  out  again  to-day 
with  the  procession.  A  sudden  idea  struck 
him.  He  glanced  quickly  at  the  letter  in 
his  hand,  and  hurriedly  opened  it.  It  con- 
tained only  three  lines,  in  a  large  formal 
hand,  but  they  sent  the  swift  blood  to  his 
cheeks. 

"  I  heard  your  voice  to-day  for  the  third 
time.  I  want  to  hear  it  again.  I  will  come 
at  dusk.  Do  not  go  out  until  then." 

He  sat  stupefied.  Was  it  madness,  au- 
dacity, or  a  trick?  He  summoned  the 
waiter.  The  letter  had  been  left  by  a  boy 
from  the  confectioner's  shop  in  the  next 
block.  He  remembered  it  of  old,  —  a  resort 
for  the  young  ladies  of  the  convent.  Nothing 
was  easier  than  conveying  a  letter  in  that 
way.  He  remembered  with  a  shock  of  dis- 
illusion and  disgust  that  it  was  a  common 
device  of  silly  but  innocent  assignation. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       147 

Was  he  to  be  the  ridiculous  accomplice  of  a 
schoolgirl's  extravagant  escapade,  or  the  de- 
luded victim  of  some  infamous  plot  of  her 
infamous  companion  ?  He  could  not  believe 
either ;  yet  he  could  not  check  a  certain  re- 
vulsion of  feeling  towards  her,  which  only  a 
moment  ago  he  would  have  believed  impos- 
sible. 

Yet  whatever  was  her  purpose,  he  must 
prevent  her  coming  there  at  any  hazard. 
Her  visit  would  be  the  culmination  of  her 
folly,  or  the  success  of  any  plot.  Even 
while  he  was  fully  conscious  of  the  material 
effect  of  any  scandal  and  exposure  to  her, 
even  while  he  was  incensed  and  disillusion- 
ized at  her  unexpected  audacity,  he  was  un- 
usually stirred  with  the  conviction  that  she 
was  wronging  herself,  and  that  more  than 
ever  she  demanded  his  help  and  his  con- 
sideration. Still  she  must  not  come.  But 
how  was  he  to  prevent  her  ?  It  wanted  but 
an  hour  of  dusk.  Even  if  he  could  again 
penetrate  the  convent  on  some  pretext  at 
that  inaccessible  hour  for  visitors,  —  twi- 
light, —  how  could  he  communicate  with 
her  ?  He  might  intercept  her  on  the  way, 
and  persiiade  her  to  return ;  but  she  must 

be  kept  from  entering  the  hotel. 
Bret  Harte  14— V.  6 


148       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

He  seized  his  hat  and  rushed  downstairs. 
But  here  another  difficulty  beset  him.  It 
was  easy  enough  to  take  the  ordinary  road 
to  the  convent,  but  would  she  follow  that 
public  one  in  what  must  be  a  surreptitious 
escape?  And  might  she  not  have  eluded 
the  procession  that  morning,  and  even  now 
be  concealed  somewhere,  waiting  for  the 
darkness  to  make  her  visit.  He  concluded 
to  patrol  the  block  next  to  the  hotel,  yet 
near  enough  to  intercept  her  before  she 
reached  it,  until  the  hour  came.  The  time 
passed  slowly.  He  loitered  before  shop  win- 
dows, or  entered  and  made  purchases,  with 
his  eye  on  the  street.  The  figure  of  a  pretty 
girl,  —  and  there  were  many,  —  the  flutter- 
ing ribbons  on  a  distant  hat,  or  the  flashing 
of  a  cambric  skirt  around  the  corner  sent  a 
nervous  thrill  through  him.  The  reflection 
of  his  grave,  abstracted  face  against  a  shop 
window,  or  the  announcement  of  the  work- 
ings of  his  own  mine  on  a  bulletin  board,  in 
its  incongruity  with  his  present  occupation, 
gave  him  an  hysterical  impulse  to  laugh. 
The  shadows  were  already  gathering,  when 
he  saw  a  slender,  graceful  figure  disappear 
in  the  confectioner's  shop  on  the  block 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       149 

below.  In  his  elaborate  precautions,  he  had 
overlooked  that  common  trysting  spot.  He 
hurried  thither,  and  entered.  The  object  of 
his  search  was  not  there,  and  he  was  com- 
pelled to  make  a  shamefaced,  awkward  sur- 
vey of  the  tables  in  an  inner  refreshment 
saloon  to  satisfy  himself.  Any  one  of  the 
pretty  girls  seated  there  might  have  been 
the  one  who  had  just  entered,  but  none  was 
the  one  he  sought.  He  hurried  into  the 
street  again,  —  he  had  wasted  a  precious 
moment,  —  and  resumed  his  watch.  The 
sun  had  sunk,  the  Angelus  had  rung  out  of 
a  chapel  belfry,  and  shadows  were  darken- 
ing the  vista  of  the  Alameda.  She  had  not 
come.  Perhaps  she  had  thought  better  of 
it ;  perhaps  she  had  been  prevented ;  per- 
haps the  whole  appointment  had  been  only  a 
trick  of  some  day-scholars,  who  were  laugh- 
ing at  him  behind  some  window.  In  pro- 
portion as  he  became  convinced  that  she 
was  not  coming,  he  was  conscious  of  a  keen 
despair  growing  in  his  heart,  and  a  sicken- 
ing remorse  that  he  had  ever  thought  of 
preventing  her.  And  when  he  at  last  re- 
luctantly reentered  the  hotel,  he  was  as 
miserable  over  the  conviction  that  she  was 


T150       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

not  coining  as  he  had  been  at  her  expected 
arrival.  The  porter  met  him  hurriedly  in 
the  hall. 

"  Sister  Seraphina  of  the  Sacred  Heart 
has  been  here,  in  a  hurry  to  see  you  on  a 
matter  of  importance,"  he  said,  eyeing  Key 
somewhat  curiously.  "  She  would  not  wait 
in  the  public  parlor,  as  she  said  her  business 
was  confidential,  so  I  have  put  her  in  a  pri- 
vate sitting-room  on  your  floor." 

Key  felt  the  blood  leave  his  cheeks.  The 
secret  was  out  for  all  his  precaution.  The 
Lady  Superior  had  discovered  the  girl's 
flight,  —  or  her  attempt.  One  of  the  gov- 
erning sisterhood  was  here  to  arraign  him 
for  it,  or  at  least  prevent  an  open  scandal. 
Yet  he  was  resolved;  and  seizing  this  last 
straw,  he  hurriedly  mounted  the  stairs,  de- 
termined to  do  battle  at  any  risk  for  the 
girl's  safety,  and  to  perjure  himself  to  any 
extent. 

She  was  standing  in  the  room  by  the  win- 
dow. The  light  fell  upon  the  coarse  serge 
dress  with  its  white  facings,  on  the  single 
girdle  that  scarcely  defined  the  formless 
waist,  on  the  huge  crucifix  that  dangled  un- 
gracefully almost  to  her  knees,  on  the 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       151 

hideous,  white-winged  coif  that,  with  the 
coarse  but  dense  white  veil,  was  itself  a  re- 
nunciation of  all  human  vanity.  It  was  a 
figure  he  remembered  well  as  a  boy,  and 
even  in  his  excitement  and  half  resentment 
touched  him  now,  as  when  a  boy,  with  a 
sense  of  its  pathetic  isolation.  His  head 
bowed  with  boyish  deference  as  she  ap- 
proached gently,  passed  him  a  slight  saluta- 
tion, and  closed  the  door  that  he  had  for- 
gotten to  shut  behind  him. 

Then,  with  a  rapid  movement,  so  quick 
that  he  could  scarcely  follow  it,  the  coif,  vefl, 
rosary,  and  crucifix  were  swept  off,  and  the 
young  pupil  of  the  convent  stood  before 
him. 

For  all  the  sombre  suggestiveness  of  her 
disguise  and  its  ungraceful  contour,  there 
was  no  mistaking  the  adorable  little  head, 
tumbled  all  over  with  silky  tendrils  of  hair 
from  the  hasty  withdrawal  of  her  coif,  or 
the  blue  eyes  that  sparkled  with  frank  de- 
light beneath  them.  Key  thought  her  more 
beautiful  than  ever.  Yet  the  very  effect  of 
her  frankness  and  beauty  was  to  recall  him 
to  all  the  danger  and  incongruity  of  her 
position. 


152       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  This  is  madness,  "  he  said  quickly. 
"You  may  be  followed  here  and  discovered 
in  this  costume  at  any  moment ! "  Never- 
theless, he  caught  the  two  little  hands  that 
had  been  extended  to  him,  and  held  them 
tightly,  and  with  a  frank  familiarity  that  he 
would  have  wondered  at  an  instant  before. 

"  But  I  won't,  "  she  said  simply.,  "  You 
see  I  'm  doing  a '  half -retreat ' ;  and  I  stay  with 
Sister  Seraphina  in  her  room  ;  and  she  always 
sleeps  two  hours  after  the  Angelus ;  and  I 
got  out  without  anybody  knowing  me,  in  her 
clothes.  I  see  what  it  is,"  she  said,  suddenly 
bending  a  reproachful  glance  upon  him, "  you 
don't  like  me  in  them.  I  know  they  're  just 
horrid ;  but  it  was  the  only  way  I  could  get 
out." 

"  You  don't  understand  me, "  he  said 
eagerly.  "  I  don't  like  you  to  run  these 
dreadful  risks  and  dangers  for "  —  He 
would  have  said  "  for  me,  "  but  added  with 
sudden  humility  —  "for  nothing.  Had  I 
dreamed  that  you  cared  to  see  me,  I  would 
have  arranged  it  easily  without  this  indiscre- 
tion, which  might  make  others  misjudge  you. 
Every  instant  that  you  remain  here  —  worse, 
every  moment  that  you  are  away  from  the 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       153 

convent  in  that  disguise,  is  fraught  with 
danger.  I  know  you  never  thought  of  it." 

"  But  I  did,"  she  said  quietly ;  "  I  thought 
of  it,  and  thought  that  if  Sister  Seraphina 
woke  up,  and  they  sent  for  me,  you  would 
take  me  away  with  you  to  that  dear  little 
hollow  in  the  hills,  where  I  first  heard  your 
voice.  You  remember  it,  don't  you  ?  You 
were  lost,  I  think,  in  the  darkness,  and  I 
used  to  say  to  myself  afterwards  that  /  found 
you.  That  was  the  first  time.  Then  the 
second  time  I  heard  you,  was  here  in  the  hall. 
I  was  alone  in  the  other  room,  for  Mrs.  Barker 
had  gone  out.  I  did  not  know  you  were  here, 
but  I  knew  your  voice.  And  the  third  time 
was  before  the  convent  gate,  and  then  I  knew 
yon  knew  me.  And  after  that  I  did  n't  think 
of  anything  but  coming  to  you ;  for  I  knew 
that  if  I  was  found  out,  you  would  take  me 
back  with  you,  and  perhaps  send  word  to  my 
brother  where  we  were,  and  then  "  —  She 
stopped  suddenly,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on 
Key's  blank  face.  Her  own  grew  blank,  the 
joy  faded  out  of  her  clear  eyes,  she  gently 
withdrew  her  hand  from  his,  and  without  a 
word  began  to  resume  her  disguise. 

"Listen  to  me,"  said  Key  passionately. 


154      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  I  am  thinking  only  of  you.  I  want  to,  and 
will,  save  you  from  any  blame,  —  blame  you 
do  not  understand  even  now.  There  is  still 
time.  I  will  go  back  to  the  convent  with  you 
at  once.  You  shall  tell  me  everything;  I 
will  tell  you  everything  on  the  way." 

She  had  already  completely  resumed  her 
austere  garb,  and  drew  the  veil  across  her 
face.  With  the  putting  on  her  coif  she 
seemed  to  have  extinguished  all  the  joyous 
youthfuhiess  of  her  spirit,  and  moved  with 
the  deliberateness  of  renunciation  towards  the 
door.  They  descended  the  staircase  without 
a  word.  Those  who  saw  them  pass  made 
way  for  them  with  formal  respect. 

When  they  were  in  the  street,  she  said 
quietly,  "  Don't  give  me  your  arm  —  Sisters 
don't  take  it.  "  When  they  had  reached  the 
street  corner,  she  turned  it,  saying,  "  This  is 
the  shortest  way." 

It  was  Key  who  was  now  restrained,  awk- 
ward, and  embarrassed.  The  fire  of  his 
spirit,  the  passion  he  had  felt  a  moment  be- 
fore, had  gone  out  of  him,  as  if  she  were  really 
the  character  she  had  assumed.  He  said  at 
last  desperately :  — 

"  How  long  did  you  live  in  the  hollow  ?  " 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      155 

"  Only  two  days.  My  brother  was  bring- 
ing me  here  to  school,  but  in  the  stage  coach 
there  was  some  one  with  whom  he  had 
quarreled,  and  he  did  n't  want  to  meet  him 
with  me.  So  we  got  out  at  Skinner's,  and 
came  to  the  hollow,  where  his  old  friends, 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barker,  lived." 

There  was  no  hesitation  nor  affectation  in 
her  voice.  Again  he  felt  that  he  would  as 
soon  have  doubted  the  words  of  the  Sister 
she  represented  as  her  own. 

"  And  your  brother  —  did  you  live  with 
him?" 

"  No.  I  was  at  school  at  Marysville  until 
he  took  me  away.  I  saw  little  of  him  for 
the  past  two  years,  for  he  had  business  in  the 
mountains  —  very  rough  business,  where  he 
could  n't  take  me,  for  it  kept  him  away  from 
the  settlements  for  weeks.  I  think  it  had 
something  to  do  with  cattle,  for  he  was  al- 
ways having  a  new  horse.  I  was  all  alone 
before  that,  too  ;  I  had  no  other  relations ;  I 
had  no  friends.  We  had  always  been  mov- 
ing about  so  much,  my  brother  and  I.  I 
never  saw  any  one  that  I  liked,  except  you, 
and  until  yesterday  I  had  only  heard  you." 

Her   perfect   naivete  alternately  thrilled 


166       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

him  with  pain  and  doubt.  In  his  awkward- 
ness and  uneasiness  he  was  brutal. 

"  Yes,  but  you  must  have  met  somebody 
—  other  men  - —  here  even,  when  you  were 
out  with  your  schoolfellows,  or  perhaps  on 
an  adventure  like  this." 

Her  white  coif  turned  towards  him 
quickly.  "  I  never  wanted  to  know  any. 
body  else.  I  never  cared  to  see  anybody 
else.  I  never  would  have  gone  out  in  this 
way  but  for  you,"  she  said  hurriedly. 
After  a  pause  she  added  in  a  frightened 
tone °.  "  That  did  n't  sound  like  your  voice 
then.  It  did  n't  sound  like  it  a  moment  ago 
either." 

"  But  you  are  sure  that  you  know  my 
voice,"  he  said,  with  affected  gayety.  "  There 
were  two  others  in  the  hollow  with  me  that 
night." 

"  I  know  that,  too.  But  I  know  even 
what  you  said.  You  reproved  them  for 
throwing  a  lighted  match  in  the  dry  grass. 
You  were  thinking  of  us  then.  I  know  it." 

"  Of  MS  ?  "  said  Key  quickly. 

"  Of  Mrs.  Barker  and  myself.  We  were 
alone  in  the  house,  for  my  brother  and  her 
husband  were  both  away.  What  you  said 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      157 

seemed  to  forewarn  me,  and  I  told  her.  So 
we  were  prepared  when  the  fire  came  nearer, 
and  we  both  escaped  on  the  same  horse." 

"  And  you  dropped  your  shoes  in  your 
flight,"  said  Key  laughingly,  "  and  I  picked 
them  up  the  next  day,  when  I  came  to  search 
for  you.  I  have  kept  them  still." 

"  They  were  her  shoes,"  said  the  girl 
quickly.  "  I  could  n't  find  mine  in  our 
hurry,  and  hers  were  too  large  for  me,  and 
dropped  off."  She  stopped,  and  with  a  fault 
return  of  her  old  gladness  said,  "  Then  you 
did  come  back  ?  I  knew  you  would." 

"  I  should  have  stayed  then,  but  we  got 
no  reply  when  we  shouted.  Why  was  that  ?  ** 
he  demanded  suddenly. 

"  Oh,  we  were  warned  against  speaking 
to  any  stranger,  or  even  being  seen  by  any 
one  while  we  were  alone,"  returned  the  girl 
simply. 

"  But  why  ?  "  persisted  Key., 

"  Oh,  because  there  were  so  many  high- 
waymen and  horse-stealers  in  the  woods. 
Why,  they  had  stopped  the  coach  only  a  few 
weeks  before,  and  only  a  day  or  two  ago, 
when  Mrs.  Barker  came  down.  She  saw 
them!" 


158      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

Key  with  difficulty  suppressed  a  groan. 
They  walked  on  in  silence  for  some  moments, 
he  scarcely  daring  to  lift  his  eyes  to  the 
decorous  little  figure  hastening  by  his  side. 
Alternately  touched  by  mistrust  and  pain, 
at  last  an  infinite  pity,  not  unmingled  with  a 
desperate  resolution,  took  possession  of  him. 

"  I  must  make  a  confession  to  you,  Miss 
Rivers,"  he  began  with  the  bashful  haste  of 
a  very  boy,  "  that  is  "  —  he  stammered 
with  a  half  hysteric  laugh,  —  "  that  is  — 
a  confession  as  if  you  were  really  a  sister 
or  a  priest,  you  know  —  a  sort  of  confidence 
to  you  —  to  your  dress.  I  have  seen  you, 
or  thought  I  saw  you  before.  It  was  that 
which  brought  me  here,  that  which  made  me 
follow  Mrs.  Barker  —  my  only  clue  to  you 
—  to  the  door  of  that  convent.  That  night, 
in  the  hollow,  I  saw  a  profile  at  the  lighted 
window,  which  I  thought  was  yours." 

"  /never  was  near  the  window,"  said  the 
young  girl  quickly.  "  It  must  have  been 
Mrs.  Barker." 

"  I  know  that  now,"  returned  Key.  "  But 
remember,  it  was  my  only  clue  to  you.  I 
mean,"  he  added  awkwardly,  "  it  was  the 
means  of  my  finding  you." 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       159 

"  I  don't  see  how  it  made  you  think  of 
me,  whom  you  never  saw,  to  see  another 
woman's  profile,"  she  retorted,  with  the 
faintest  touch  of  asperity  in  her  childlike 
voice.  "  But,"  she  added,  more  gently  and 
with  a  relapse  into  her  adorable  naivete, 
"  most  people's  profiles  look  alike." 

"  It  was  not  that,"  protested  Key,  still 
awkwardly,  "  it  was  only  that  I  realized 
something  —  only  a  dream,  perhaps." 

She  did  not  reply,  and  they  continued  on 
in  silence.  The  gray  wall  of  the  convent 
was  already  in  sight.  Key  felt  he  had 
achieved  nothing.  Except  for  information 
that  was  hopeless,  he  had  come  to  no  nearer 
understanding  of  the  beautiful  girl  beside 
him,  and  his  future  appeared  as  vague  as 
before ;  and,  above  all,  he  was  conscious  of 
an  inferiority  of  character  and  purpose  to 
this  simple  creature,  who  had  obeyed  him  so 
submissively.  Had  he  acted  wisely  ?  Would 
it  not  have  been  better  if  he  had  followed 
her  own  frankness,  and  — 

"  Then  it  was  Mrs.  Barker's  profile  that 
brought  you  here  ?  "  resumed  the  voice  be- 
neath the  coif.  "  You  know  she  has  gone 
back.  I  suppose  you  will  follow  ?  " 


160       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  You  will  not  understand  me,"  said  Key 
desperately.  "  But,"  he  added  in  a  lower 
voice,  "  I  shall  remain  here  until  you  do." 

He  drew  a  little  closer  to  her  side. 

"  Then  you  must  not  begin  by  walking  so 
close  to  me,"  she  said,  moving  slightly 
away ;  "  they  may  see  you  from  the  gate. 
And  you  must  not  go  with  me  beyond  that 
corner.  If  I  have  been  missed  already  they 
wiH  suspect  you." 

"  But  how  shall  I  know  ? "  he  said,  at- 
tempting to  take  her  hand.  "  Let  me  walk 
past  the  gate.  I  cannot  leave  you  in  this 
uncertainty." 

"  You  will  know  soon  enough,"  she  said 
gravely,  evading  his  hand.  "  You  must  not 
go  further  now.  Good-night." 

She  had  stopped  at  the  corner  of  the  wall. 
He  again  held  out  his  hand.  Her  little 
fingers  slid  coldly  between  his. 

"  Good-night,  Miss  Rivers." 

"  Stop  !  "  she  said  suddenly,  withdrawing 
her  veil  and  lifting  her  clear  eyes  to  his  in 
the  moonlight.  "  You  must  not  say  that  — 
it  is  n't  the  truth.  I  can't  bear  to  hear  it 
from  your  lips,  in  your  voice.  My  name  is 
not  Rivers ! " 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       161 

"Not  Elvers  —  why?"  said  Key,  as- 
tounded. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know  why,"  she  said  half 
despairingly ;  "  only  my  brother  did  n't 
want  me  to  use  my  name  and  his  here,  and 
I  promised.  My  name  is  «  Riggs '  —  there ! 
It 's  a  secret  —  you  must  n't  tell  it ;  but  I 
could  not  bear  to  hear  you  say  a  lie.," 

"Good-night,  Miss  Riggs,"  said  Key 
sadly. 

"No,  nor  that  either,"  she  said  softly. 
"  Say  Alice." 

"Good-night,  Alice." 

She  moved  on  before  him.  She  reached 
the  gate.  For  a  moment  her  figure,  in  its 
austere,  formless  garments,  seemed  to  him  to 
even  stoop  and  bend  forward  in  the  humility 
of  age  and  self-renunciation,  and  she  vanished 
within  as  into  a  living  tomb. 

Forgetting  all  precaution,  he  pressed 
eagerly  forward,  and  stopped  before  the  gate. 
There  was  no  sound  from  within  ;  there  had 
evidently  been  no  challenge  nor  interrup- 
tion. She  was  safe. 


CHAPTER  VH. 

THE  reappearance  of  Chivers  in  the  mill 
with  Collinson,  and  the  brief  announcement 
that  the  prisoner  had  consented  to  a  satis- 
factory compromise,  were  received  at  first 
with  a  half  contemptuous  smile  by  the  party ; 
but  for  the  commands  of  their  leaders,  and 
possibly  a  conviction  that  Collinson's  fatu- 
ous cooperation  with  Chivers  would  be  safer 
than  his  wrath,  which  might  not  expend  it- 
self only  on  Chivers,  but  imperil  the  safety 
of  all,  it  is  probable  that  they  would  have 
informed  the  unfortunate  prisoner  of  his 
real  relations  to  his  captor.  In  these  cir- 
cumstances, Chivers's  half  satirical  sugges- 
tion that  Collinson  should  be  added  to  the 
sentries  outside,  and  guard  his  own  property, 
was  surlily  assented  to  by  Riggs,  and  com- 
placently accepted  by  the  others.  Chivers 
offered  to  post  him  himself,  —  not  without 
an  interchange  of  meaning  glances  with 
—  Collinson's  own  gun  was  returned 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       163 

to  him,  and  the  strangely  assorted  pair  left 
the  mill  amicably  together. 

But  however  humanly  confident  Chivers 
was  in  his  companion's  faithfulness,  he  was 
not  without  a  rascal's  precaution,  and  deter- 
mined to  select  a  position  for  Collinson 
where  he  could  do  the  least  damage  in  any 
aberration  of  trust.  At  the  top  of  the  grade, 
above  the  mill,  was  the  only  trail  by  which  a 
party  in  force  could  approach  it.  This  was 
to  Chivers  obviously  too  strategic  a  position 
to  intrust  to  his  prisoner,  and  the  sentry 
who  guarded  its  approach,  five  hundred 
yards  away,  was  left  unchanged.  But  there 
was  another  "  blind  "  trail,  or  cut-off,  to  the 
left,  through  the  thickest  undergrowth  of  the 
woods,  known  only  to  his  party.  To  place 
Colliuson  there  was  to  insure  him  perfect 
immunity  from  the  approach  of  an  enemy, 
as  well  as  from  any  confidential  advances  of 
his  fellow  sentry.  This  done,  he  drew  a 
cigar  from  his  pocket,  and  handing  it  to 
Collinson,  lighted  another  for  himself,  and 
leaning  back  comfortably  against  a  large 
boulder,  glanced  complacently  at  his  com- 
panion. 

"  You  may  smoke  until  I  go,  Mr.  Collin- 


164      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

son,  and  even  afterwards,  if  you  keep  the 
bowl  of  your  pipe  behind  a  rock,  so  as  to  be 
out  of  sight  of  your  fellow  sentry,  whose  ad- 
vances, by  the  way,  if  I  were  you,  I  should 
not  encourage.  Your  position  here,  you  see, 
is  a  rather  peculiar  one.  You  were  saying, 
I  think,  that  a  lingering  affection  for  your 
wife  impelled  you  to  keep  this  place  for  her, 
although  you  were  convinced  of  her  death  ?  " 

Collinson's  unaffected  delight  in  Chivers's 
kindliness  had  made  his  eyes  shine  hi  the 
moonlight  with  a  doglike  wistfulness.  "  I 
reckon  I  did  say  that,  Mr.  Chivers,"  he  said 
apologetically,  "  though  it  ain't  goin'  to  in- 
terfere with  you  usin'  the  shanty  jest  now." 

"  I  was  n't  alluding  to  that,  Collinson," 
returned  Chivers,  with  a  large  rhetorical 
wave  of  the  hand,  and  an  equal  enjoyment 
in  his  companion's  evident  admiration  of 
him,  "  but  it  struck  me  that  your  remark, 
nevertheless,  implied  some  doubt  of  your 
wife's  death,  and  I  don't  know  but  that  your 
doubts  are  right." 

"Wot's  that?"  said  Collinson,  with  a 
dull  glow  in  his  face. 

Chivers  blew  the  smoke  of  his  cigar  lazily 
in  the  still  air.  "  Listen,"  he  said.  "  Since 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      165 

your  miraculous  conversion  a  few  moments 
ago,  I  have  made  some  friendly  inquiries 
about  you,  and  I  find  that  you  lost  all  trace 
of  your  wife  in  Texas  in  '52,  where  a  num- 
ber of  her  fellow  emigrants  died  of  yellow 
fever.  Is  that  so  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Collinson  quickly. 

"  Well,  it  so  happens  that  a  friend  of 
mine,"  continued  Chivers  slowly,  "  was  in  a 
train  which  followed  that  one,  and  picked  up 
and  brought  on  some  of  the  survivors." 

"That  was  the  train  wot  brought  the 
news,"  said  Collinson,  relapsing  into  his  old 
patience.  "  That 's  how  I  knowed  she 
had  n't  come." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  names  of  any  of 
its  passengers  ?  "  said  Chivers,  with  a  keen 
glance  at  his  companion. 

"  Nary  one  !  I  only  got  to  know  it  was 
a  small  train  of  only  two  wagons,  and  it 
sorter  melted  into  Californy  through  a 
southern  pass,  and  kinder  petered  out,  and 
no  one  ever  heard  of  it  agin,  and  that  was 
all." 

"  That  was  not  all,  Collinson,"  said  Chi- 
vers lazily.  "/  saw  the  train  arrive  at 
South  Pass.  I  was  awaiting  a  friend  and 


166      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

his  wife.  There  was  a  lady  with  them,  one 
of  the  survivors.  I  did  n't  hear  her  name, 
but  I  think  my  friend's  wife  called  her 
'  Sadie.'  I  remember  her  as  a  rather  pretty 
woman  —  tall,  fair,  with  a  straight  nose  and 
a  full  chin,  and  small  slim  feet.  I  saw  her 
only  a  moment,  for  she  was  on  her  way  to 
Los  Angeles,  and  was,  I  believe,  going  to 
join  her  husband  somewhere  in  the  Sierras." 

The  rascal  had  been  enjoying  with  intense 
satisfaction  the  return  of  the  dull  glow  in 
Collinson's  face,  that  even  seemed  to  animate 
the  whole  length  of  his  angular  frame  as  it 
turned  eagerly  towards  him.  So  he  went  on, 
experiencing  a  devilish  zest  in  this  descrip- 
tion of  his  mistress  to  her  husband,  apart 
from  the  pleasure  of  noting  the  slow  awak- 
ening of  this  apathetic  giant,  with  a  sensa- 
tion akin  to  having  warmed  him  into  life. 
Yet  his  triumph  was  of  short  duration.  The 
fire  dropped  suddenly  out  of  Collinson's 
eyes,  the  glow  from  his  face,  and  the  dull 
look  of  unwearied  patience  returned. 

"  That 's  all  very  kind  and  purty  of  yer, 
Mr.  Chivers,"  he  said  gravely ;  "  you  've 
got  all  my  wife's  pints  thar  to  a  dot,  and  it 
seems  to  fit  her  jest  like  a  shoe  I  picked  up 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       167 

t'  other  day.  But  it  was  n't  my  Sadie,  for 
ef  she  's  living  or  had  lived,  she  'd  bin  just 
yere!" 

The  same  fear  and  recognition  of  some 
unknown  reserve  in  this  trustful  man  came 
over  Chivers  as  before.  In  his  angry  re- 
sentment of  it  he  would  have  liked  to  blurt 
out  the  infidelity  of  the  wife  before  her  hus- 
band, but  he  knew  Collinson  would  not  be- 
lieve him,  and  he  had  another  purpose  now. 
His  full  lips  twisted  into  a  suave  smile. 

"  While  I  would  not  give  you  false  hopes, 
Mr.  Collinson,"  he  said,  with  a  bland  smile, 
"  my  interest  in  you  compels  me  to  say  that 
you  may  be  over  confident  and  wrong. 
There  are  a  thousand  things  that  may  have 
prevented  your  wife  from  coming  to  you,  — 
illness,  possibly  the  result  of  her  exposure, 
poverty,  misapprehension  of  your  place  of 
meeting,  and,  above  all,  perhaps  some  false 
report  of  your  own  death.  Has  it  ever 
occurred  to  you  that  it  is  as  possible  for  her 
to  have  been  deceived  in  that  way  as  for 
you  ?  " 

"  Wot  yer  say  ?  "  said  Collinson,  with  a 
vague  suspicion. 

"  What  I  mean.     You  think  yourself  jus- 


168      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

tified  in  believing  your  wife  dead,  because 
site  did  not  seek  you  here  ;  may  she  not  feel 
herself  equally  justified  in  believing  the  same 
of  you,  because  you  had  not  sought  her  else- 
where ?  " 

"  But  it  was  writ  that  she  was  comin'  yere, 
and  —  I  boarded  every  train  that  come  in 
that  fall, "  said  Collinson,  with  a  new  irri- 
tation, unlike  his  usual  calm. 

"  Except  one,  my  dear  Collinson,  —  ex- 
cept one,"  returned  Chivers,  holding  up  a 
fat  forefinger  smilingly.  "  And  that  may 
be  the  clue.  Now,  listen  !  There  is  still  a 
chance  of  following  it,  if  you  will.  The  name 
of  my  friends  were  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Barker. 
I  regret, "  he  added,  with  a  perfunctory 
cough,  "  that  poor  Barker  is  dead.  He  was 
not  such  an  exemplary  husband  as  you  are, 
my  dear  Collinson,  and  I  fear  was  not  all 
that  Mrs.  Barker  could  have  wished ;  enough 
that  he  succumbed  from  various  excesses,  and 
did  not  leave  me  Mrs.  Barker's  present  ad- 
dress. But  she  has  a  young  friend,  a  ward, 
living  at  the  convent  of  Santa  Luisa,  whose 
name  is  Miss  Rivers,  who  can  put  you  in 
communication  with  her.  Now,  one  thing 
more :  I  can  understand  your  feelings,  and 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      169 

that  you  would  wish  at  once  to  satisfy  your 
mind.  It  is  not,  perhaps,  to  my  interest  nor 
the  interest  of  my  party  to  advise  you,  but, " 
he  continued,  glancing  around  him,  "you 
have  an  admirably  secluded  position  here,  on 
the  edge  of  the  trail,  and  if  you  are  missing 
from  your  post  to-morrow  morning,  I  shall 
respect  your  feelings,  trust  to  your  honor 
to  keep  this  secret,  and — consider  it  useless 
to  pursue  you !  " 

There  was  neither  shame  nor  pity  in  his 
heart,  as  the  deceived  man  turned  towards 
him  with  tremulous  eagerness,  and  grasped 
his  hand  in  silent  gratitude.  But  the  old 
rage  and  fear  returned,  as  Collinson  said 
gravely :  — 

"You  kinder  put  a  new  life  inter  me,  Mr. 
Chivers,  and  I  wish  I  had  yer  gift  o'  speech 
to  tell  ye  so.  But  I  've  passed  my  word  to 
the  Capting  thar  and  to  the  rest  o'  you  folks 
that  I  'd  stand  guard  out  yere,  and  I  don't 
go  back  o'  my  word.  I  mout,  and  I  niout  n't 
find  my  Sadie ;  but  she  would  n't  think  the 
less  o'  me,  arter  these  years  o'  waitin',  ef 
I  stayed  here  another  night,  to  guard  the 
house  I  keep  in  trust  for  her,  and  the  stran- 
gers I  've  took  in  on  her  account." 


170     IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  As  you  like,  then,  "  said  drivers,  con- 
tracting his  lips,  "  but  keep  your  own  coun- 
sel to-night.  There  may  be  those  who  would 
like  to  deter  you  from  your  search.  And 
now  I  will  leave  you  alone  in  this  delight- 
ful moonlight.  I  quite  envy  you  your  un- 
restricted communion  with  Nature.  Adios, 
amigo,  adios  !  " 

He  leaped  lightly  on  a  large  rock  that 
overhung  the  edge  of  the  grade,  and  waved 
his  hand. 

"  I  would  n't  do  that,  Mr.  drivers,"  said 
Collinson,  with  a  concerned  face  ;  "  them 
rocks  are  mighty  ticklish,  and  that  one  in 
partiklar.  A  tech  sometimes  sends  'em 
scooting." 

Mr.  drivers  leaped  quickly  to  the  ground, 
turned,  waved  his  hand  again,  and  disap- 
peared down  the  grade. 

But  Collinson  was  no  longer  alone.  Hith- 
erto his  characteristic  reveries  had  been  of 
the  past,  —  reminiscences  in  which  there  was 
only  recollection,  no  imagination,  and  very 
little  hope.  Under  the  spell  of  Chivers's 
words  his  fancy  seemed  to  expand ;  he  began 
to  think  of  his  wife  as  she  might  be  now,  — 
perhaps  ill,  despairing,  wandering  hopelessly, 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      171 

even  ragged  and  footsore,  or  —  believing  him 
dead  —  relapsing  into  the  resigned  patience 
that  had  been  his  own ;  but  always  a  new 
Sadie,  whom  he  had  never  seen  or  known  be- 
fore. A  faint  dread,  the  lightest  of  misgiv- 
ings (perhaps  coming  from  his  very  igno- 
rance), for  the  first  time  touched  his  steadfast 
heart,  and  sent  a  chill  through  it.  He  shoul- 
dered his  weapon,  and  walked  briskly  towards 
the  edge  of  the  thick-set  woods.  There  were 
the  fragrant  essences  of  the  laurel  and 
spruce — baked  in  the  long-day  sunshine  that 
had  encompassed  their  recesses — still  coming 
warm  to  his  face  ;  there  were  the  strange 
shiftings  of  temperature  throughout  the 
openings,  that  alternately  warmed  and  chilled 
him  as  he  walked.  It  seemed  so  odd  that 
he  should  now  have  to  seek  her  instead 
of  her  coming  to  him  ;  it  would  never  be 
the  same  meeting  to  him,  away  from 
the  house  that  he  had  built  for  her  !  He 
strolled  back,  and  looked  down  upon  it,  nes- 
tling on  the  ledge.  The  white  moonlight 
that  lay  upon  it  dulled  the  glitter  of  lights  in 
its  windows,  but  the  sounds  of  laughter  and 
singing  came  to  even  his  unf astidious  ears  with 
a  sense  of  vague  discord.  He  walked  back 


172     IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

again,  and  began  to  pace  before  the  thick-set 
wood.  Suddenly  he  stopped  and  listened. 

To  any  other  ears  but  those  accustomed 
to  mountain  solitude  it  would  have  seemed 
nothing.  But,  familiar  as  he  was  with  all 
the  infinite  disturbances  of  the  woodland, 
and  even  the  simulation  of  intrusion  caused 
by  a  falling  branch  or  lapsing  pine-cone,  he 
was  arrested  now  by  a  recurring  sound,  un- 
like any  other.  It  was  an  occasional  muffled 
beat —  interrupted  at  uncertain  intervals, 
but  always  returning  in  regular  rhythm, 
whenever  it  was  audible.  He  knew  it  was 
made  by  a  cantering  horse;  that  the  inter- 
vals were  due  to  the  patches  of  dead  leaves 
in  its  course,  and  that  the  varying  move- 
ment was  the  effect  of  its  progress  through 
obstacles  and  underbrush.  It  was  there- 
fore coming  through  some  "  blind "  cut-off 
in  the  thick-set  wood.  The  shifting  of  the 
sound  also  showed  that  the  rider  was  unfa- 
miliar with  the  locality,  and  sometimes  wan- 
dered from  the  direct  course  ;  but  the  unfail- 
ing and  accelerating  persistency  of  the  sound, 
in  spite  of  these  difficulties,  indicated  haste 
and  determination. 

He    swung   his   gun    from    his    shoulder, 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      173 

and  examined  its  caps.  As  the  sound  came 
nearer,  he  drew  up  beside  a  young  spruce 
at  the  entrance  of  the  thicket.  There  was 
no  necessity  to  alarm  the  house,  or  call  the 
other  sentry.  It  was  a  single  horse  and  rider, 
and  he  was  equal  to  that.  He  waited  quietly, 
and  with  his  usual  fateful  patience.  Even 
then  his  thoughts  still  reverted  to  his  wife ; 
and  it  was  with  a  singular  feeling  that  he,  at 
last,  saw  the  thick  underbrush  give  way  before 
a  woman,  mounted  on  a  sweating  but  still 
spirited  horse,  who  swept  out  into  the  open. 
Nevertheless,  he  stopped  in  front  of  her,  and 
caUed :  — 

"  Hold  up  thar !  " 

The  horse  recoiled,  nearly  unseating  her. 
Collinson  caught  the  reins.  She  lifted  her 
whip  mechanically,  yet  remained  holding  it 
in  the  air,  trembling,  until  she  slipped,  half 
struggling,  half  helplessly,  from  the  saddle 
to  the  ground.  Here  she  would  have  again 
fallen,  but  Collinson  caught  her  sharply  by 
the  waist.  At  his  touch  she  started  and  ut- 
tered a  frightened  "  No !  "  At  her  voice 
Collinson  started. 

"  Sadie  !  "  he  gasped. 

"  Seth !  "  she  half  whispered. 


174       I.ZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  But 
Coll  nson  was  already  himself  again.  The 
man  of  simple  directness  and  no  imagina- 
tion saw  only  his  wife  before  him  —  a  little 
breathless,  a  little  flurried,  a  little  dishev- 
eled from  rapid  riding,  as  he  had  sometimes 
seen  her  before,  but  otherwise  unchanged. 
Nor  had  he  changed ;  he  took  her  up  where 
he  had  left  her  years  ago.  His  grave  face 
only  broadened  into  a  smile,  as  he  held  both 
her  hands  in  his. 

"  Yes,  it 's  me  —  Lordy !  Why,  I  was 
comin'  only  to-morrow  to  find  ye,  Sade !  " 

She  glanced  hurriedly  around  her.  "  To 
—  to  find  me,"  she  said  incredulously. 

"  Sartain !  That  ez,  I  was  goin'  to  ask 
about  ye,  —  goin'  to  ask  about  ye  at  the  con- 
vent." 

"  At  the  convent  ?  "  she  echoed  with  a 
frightened  amazement. 

"  Yes,  why,  Lordy !  Sade  —  don't  you  see  ? 
You  thought  I  was  dead,  and  I  thought  you 
was  dead,  —  that 's  what 's  the  matter.  But 
I  never  reckoned  that  you  'd  think  me  dead 
until  Chivers  allowed  that  it  must  be  so." 

Her  face  whitened  in  the  moonlight 
"  Chivers  ?  "  she  said  blankly. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      175 

"  In  course  ;  but  nat'rally  you  don't  know 
him,  honey.  He  only  saw  you  onc't.  But 
it  was  along  o'  that,  Sade,  that  he  told  me 
he  reckoned  you  wasn't  dead,  and  told  me 
how  to  find  you.  He  was  mighty  kind  and 
consarned  about  it,  and  he  even  allowed  I  'd 
better  slip  off  to  you  this  very  night." 

"  Chivers,"  she  repeated,  gazing  at  her 
husband  with  bloodless  lips. 

"  Yes,  an  awful  purty-spoken  man.  Ye  '11 
have  to  get  to  know  him,  Sade.  He  's  here 
with  some  of  his  folks  az  hez  got  inter  trou- 
ble —  I  'm  forgettin'  to  tell  ye.  You  see  "  — 

"  Yes,  yes,  yes  !  "  she  interrupted  hyster- 
ically ;  «  and  this  is  the  Mill  ?  " 

"Yes,  lovey,  the  Mill  —  my  mill  —  your 
mill  —  the  house  I  built  for  you,  dear.  I  'd 
show  it  to  you  now,  but  you  see,  Sade, 
I'm  out  here  standin'  guard." 

"  Are  you  one  of  them  ? "  she  said, 
clutching  his  hand  desperately. 

"No,  dear,"  he  said  soothingly,  —  "no; 
only,  you  see,  I  giv*  my  word  to  'em  as  I 
giv'  my  house  to-night,  and  I  'm  bound  to 
protect  them  and  see  'em  through.  Why, 
Lordy!  Sade,  you'd  have  done  the  same 
—  for  Chivers." 


176      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  Yes,  yes,5"  she  said,  beating  her  hands 
together  strangely,  "of  course.  He  was  so 
kind  to  bring  me  back  to  you.  And  you 
might  have  never  found  me  but  for  him." 

She  burst  into  an  hysterical  laugh,  which 
the  simple-minded  man  might  have  over- 
looked but  for  the  tears  that  coursed  down 
her  bloodless  face. 

"  What 's  gone  o'  ye,  Sadie/'  he  said  in  a 
sudden  fear,  grasping  her  hands ;  "  that 
laugh  ain't  your'n  —  that  voice  ain't  your'n. 
You're  the  old  Sadie,  ain't  ye?"  He 
stopped.  For  a  moment  his  face  blanched 
as  he  glanced  towards  the  mill,  from  which 
the  faint  sound  of  bacchanalian  voices  came 
to  his  quick  ear.  "  Sadie,  dear,  ye  ain't 
thinkin'  anything  agin'  me?  Ye  ain't  al- 
lowin*  I  'm  keeping  anythin'  back  from  ye  ?  " 

Her  face  stiffened  into  rigidity;  she 
dashed  the  tears  from  her  eyes.  «  No,"  she 
said  quickly.  Then  after  a  moment  she 
added,  with  a  faint  laugh,  "  You  see  we 
have  n't  seen  each  other  for  so  long  —  it 's 
all  so  sudden — so  unexpected." 

"  But  you  kem  here,  just  now,  calkilatin' 
to  find  me  ?  "  said  Collinson  gravely. 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  said  quickly,  still  grasp- 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      177 

ing  both  his  hands,  but  with  her  head 
slightly  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  mill. 

"  But  who  told  ye  where  to  find  the  mill  ?  " 
he  said,  with  gentle  patience. 

"A  friend,"  she  said  hurriedly.  "Per- 
haps," she  added,  with  a  singular  smile,  "  a 
friend  of  the  friend  who  told  you." 

"  I  see,"  said  Colliuson,  with  a  relieved 
face  and  a  broadening  smile,  "  it 's  a  sort  of 
fairy  story.  I  '11  bet,  now,  it  was  that  old 
Barker  woman  that  Chivers  knows." 

Her  teeth  gleamed  rigidly  together  in  the 
moonlight,  like  a  death's-head.  "  Yes,"  she 
said  dryly,  "  it  was  that  old  Barker  woman. 
Say,  Seth,"  she  continued,  moistening  her 
lips  slowly,  "  you  're  guarding  this  place 
alone?" 

"  Thar 's  another  feller  up  the  trail,  —  a 
sentry, — but  don't  you  be  afeard,  he  can't 
hear  us,  Sade." 

"  On  this  side  of  the  mill  ?  " 

"Yes!  Why,  Lord  love  ye,  Sadie! 
t'  other  side  o'  the  mill  it  drops  down  straight 
to  the  valley ;  nobody  comes  yer  that  way 
but  poor  low-down  emigrants.  And  it's 
miles  round  to  come  by  the  valley  from  the 
summit." 


1 178      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  You  did  n't  hear  your  friend  Chivers 
say  that  the  sheriff  was  out  with  his  posse 
to-night  hunting  them?" 

"  No.     Did  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  heard  something  of  that  kind 
at  Skinner's,  but  it  may  have  been  only  a 
warning  to  me,  traveling  alone." 

"  Thet  's  so,"  said  Collinson,  with  a  ten- 
der solicitude,  "  but  none  o'  these  yer  road- 
agents  would  have  teched  a  woman.  And 
this  yer  Chivers  ain't  the  man  to  insult  one, 
either." 

"  No,"  she  said,  with  a  return  of  her  hys- 
teric laugh.  But  it  was  overlooked  by  Col- 
linson, who  was  taking  his  gun  from  beside 
the  tree  where  he  had  placed  it.  "  Where 
are  you  going  ?  "  she  said  suddenly. 

"  I  reckon  them  fellers  ought  to  be 
warned  o'  what  you  heard.  I  '11  be  back 
in  a  minit." 

"  And  you  're  going  to  leave  me  now  — 
when  —  when  we  've  only  just  met  after 
these  years,"  she  said,  with  a  faint  attempt 
at  a  smile,  which,  however,  did  not  reach 
the  cold  glitter  of  her  eyes. 

"  Just  for  a  little,  honey.  Besides,  don't 
you  see,  I  've  got  to  get  excused ;  for  we  '11 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      179 

have  to  go  off  to  Skinner's  or  somewhere, 
Sadie,  for  we  can't  stay  in  thar  along  o' 
them." 

"  So  you  and  your  wife  are  turned  out  of 
your  home  to  please  Chivers,"  she  said,  still 
smiling. 

"  That 's  whar  you  slip  up,  Sadie,"  said 
Collinson,  with  a  troubled  face ;  "  for  he 's 
that  kind  of  a  man  thet  if  I  jest  as  much 
as  hinted  you  was  here,  he'd  turn  'em  all 
out  o'  the  house  for  a  lady.  Thet 's  why  I 
don't  propose  to  let  on  anything  about  you 
till  to-morrow." 

"  To-morrow  will  do,"  she  said,  still  smil- 
ing, but  with  a  singular  abstraction  in  her 
face.  "  Pray  don't  disturb  them  now.  You 
say  there  is  another  sentinel  beyond.  He  is 
enough  to  warn  them  of  any  approach  from 
the  trail.  I  'm  tired  and  ill  —  very  ill ! 
Sit  by  me  here,  Seth,  and  wait !  We  can 
wait  here  together  —  we  have  waited  so 
long,  Seth,  —  and  the  end  has  come  now." 

She  suddenly  lapsed  against  the  tree,  and 
slipped  in  a  sitting  posture  to  the  ground. 
Collinson  cast  himself  at  her  side,  and  put 
his  arm  round  her. 

"  Wot 's  gone  o'  ye,  Sade  ?     You  're  cold 
Bret  Harte  15— V.  6 


180      ZZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

and  sick.  Listen.  Your  hoss  is  just  over 
thar  feeding  I  '11  put  you  back  on  him,  run 
in  and  tell  'em  I  'm  off,  and  be  with  ye  in  a 
jiffy,  and  take  ye  back  to  Skinner's." 

««  Wait, "  she  said  softly.     "  Wait." 

"  Or  to  the  Silver  Hollow  —  it 's  not  so 
far." 

She  had  caught  his  hands  again,  her  rigid 
face  close  to  hiSo  "  What  hollow  ? — speak  I " 
she  said  breathlessly. 

"  The  hollow  whar  a  friend  o'  mine  struck 
silver,  He  '11  take  yur  in." 

Her  head  sank  against  his  shoulder. 
"Let  me  stay  here,"  she  answered,  "and 
wait." 

He  supported  her  tenderly,  feeling  the 
gentle  brushing  of  her  hair  against  his  cheek 
as  in  the  old  days.  He  was  content  to  wait, 
holding  her  thus.  They  were  very  silent ; 
her  eyes  half  closed,  as  if  in  exhaustion,  yet 
with  the  strange  suggestion  of  listening  hi 
the  vacant  pupils. 

"  Ye  ain't  hearin'  anythin',  deary  ?  "  he 
said,  with  a  troubled  face. 

"  No ;  but  everything  is  so  deathly  still," 
she  said  in  a  frightened  whisper. 

It  certainly  was  very  still.  A  singular  hush 


72V  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      181 

seemed  to  have  slid  over  the  landscape  ;  there 
was  no  longer  any  sound  from  the  mill ;  there 
was  an  ominous  rest  in  the  woodland,  so  per- 
fect that  the  tiny  rustle  of  an  uneasy  wing 
in  the  tree  above  them  had  made  them  start ; 
even  the  moonlight  seemed  to  hang  sus- 
pended in  the  air. 

"  It 's  like  the  lull  before  the  storm,"  she 
said  with  her  strange  laugh. 

But  the  non-imaginative  Collinson  was 
more  practical.  "  It 's  mighty  like  that 
earthquake  weather  before  the  big  shake 
thet  dried  up  the  river  and  stopped  the  mill. 
That  was  just  the  time  I  got  the  news  o'  your 
beiii'  dead  with  yellow  fever.  Lord !  honey, 
I  allus  allowed  to  myself  thet  suthin'  was 
happenin'  to  ye  then." 

She  did  not  reply;  but  he,  holding  her 
figure  closer  to  him,  felt  it  trembling  with  a 
nervous  expectation.  Suddenly  she  threw 
him  off,  and  rose  to  her  feet  with  a  cry. 
"  There !  "  she  screamed  frantically, "  they  've 
come  !  they  've  come  !  " 

A  rabbit  had  run  out  into  the  moonlight 
before  them,  a  gray  fox  had  dashed  from  the 
thicket  into  the  wood,  but  nothing  else. 

"  Who 's  come  ?  "  said  Collinson,  staring 
at  her. 


182      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  The  sheriff  and  his  posse  !  They  're 
surrounding  them  now.  Don't  you  hear  ?  " 
she  gasped. 

There  was  a  strange  rattling  in  the  direc- 
tion of  the  mill,  a  dull  rumble,  with  wild 
shouts  and  outcries,  and  the  trampling  of 
feet  on  its  wooden  platform.  Collinson 
staggered  to  his  feet ;  but  at  the  same  mo- 
ment he  was  thrown  violently  against  his 
wife,  and  they  both  clung  helplessly  to  the 
tree,  with  their  eyes  turned  toward  the  ledge. 
There  was  a  dense  cloud  of  dust  and  haze 
hanging  over  it. 

She  uttered  another  cry,  and  ran  swiftly 
towards  the  rocky  grade.  Collinson  ran 
quickly  after  her,  but  as  she  reached  the 
grade  he  suddenly  shouted,  with  an  awful 
revelation  in  his  voice,  "  Come  back ! 
Stop,  Sadie,  for  God's  sake  !  "  But  it  was 
too  late.  She  had  already  disappeared ;  and 
as  he  reached  the  rock  on  which  Chivers  had 
leaped,  he  felt  it  give  way  beneath  him. 

But  there  was  no  sound,  only  a  rush  of 
wind  from  the  valley  below.  Everything 
lapsed  again  into  its  awful  stillness.  As  the 
cloud  lifted  from  where  the  mill  had  stood, 
the  moon  shone  only  upon  empty  space. 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      183 

There  was  a  singular  murmuring  and  whis- 
pering from  the  woods  beyond  that  increased 
in  sound,  and  an  hour  later  the  dry  bed  of  the 
old  mill-stream  was  filled  with  a  rushing  river. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

PREBLE  KEY  returned  to  his  hotel  f  rcm 
the  convent,  it  is  to  be  feared,  with  very 
little  of  that  righteous  satisfaction  which  is 
supposed  to  follow  the  performance  of  a 
good  deed,  He  was  by  no  means  certain 
that  what  he  had  done  was  best  for  the 
young  girl.  He  had  only  shown  himself  to 
her  as  a  worldly  monitor  of  dangers,  of 
which  her  innocence  was  providentially  un- 
conscious. In  his  feverish  haste  to  avert  a 
scandal,  he  had  no  chance  to  explain  his  real 
feelings  ;  he  had,  perhaps,  even  exposed  her 
thwarted  impulses  to  equally  naive  but  more 
dangerous  expression,  which  he  might  not 
have  the  opportunity  to  check.  He  tossed 
wakefully  that  night  upon  his  pillow,  tor- 
mented with  alternate  visions  of  her  ador- 
able presence  at  the  hotel,  and  her  bowed, 
renunciating  figure  as  she  reentered  the 
convent  gate.  He  waited  expectantly  the 
next  day  for  the  message  she  had  promised, 


ZZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      185 

and  which  lie  believed  she  would  find  some 
way  to  send.  But  no  message  was  forth- 
coming. The  day  passed,  and  he  became 
alarmed.  The  fear  that  her  escapade  had 
been  discovered  again  seized  him.  If  she 
were  in  close  restraint,  she  could  neither  send 
to  him,  nor  could  he  convey  to  her  the  so- 
licitude and  sympathy  that  filled  his  heart. 
In  her  childish  frankness  she  might  have 
confessed  the  whole  truth,  and  this  would 
not  only  shut  the  doors  of  the  convent 
against  him,  under  his  former  pretext,  but 
compromise  her  still  more  if  he  boldly 
called.  He  waylaid  the  afternoon  proces- 
sion;  she  was  not  among  them.  Utterly 
despairing,  the  wildest  plans  for  seeing  her 
passed  through  his  brain,  —  plans  that  re- 
called his  hot-headed  youth,  and  a  few 
moments  later  made  him  smile  at  his  ex- 
travagance, even  while  it  half  frightened  him 
at  the  reality  of  his  passion.  He  reached 
the  hotel  heart-sick  and  desperate.  The 
porter  met  him  on  the  steps.  It  was  with  a 
thrill  that  sent  the  blood  leaping  to  his 
cheeks  that  he  heard  the  man  say :  — 

"  Sister  Seraphina  is  waiting  for  you  in 
the  sitting-room." 


186      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

There  was  no  thought  of  discovery  or 
scandal  in  Preble  Key's  mind  now  ;  no  doubt 
or  hesitation  as  to  what  he  would  do,  as  he 
sprang  up  the  staircase.  He  only  knew 
that  he  had  found  her  again,  and  was 
happy !  He  burst  into  the  room,  but  this 
time  remembered  to  shut  the  door  behind 
him.  He  looked  eagerly  towards  the  win- 
dow where  she  had  stood  the  day  before, 
but  now  she  rose  quickly  from  the  sofa  in 
the  corner,  where  she  had  been  seated,  and 
the  missal  she  had  been  reading  rolled  from 
her  lap  to  the  floor.  He  ran  towards  her  to 
pick  it  up.  Her  name  —  the  name  she  had 
told  him  to  call  her  —  was  passionately 
trembling  on  his  lips,  when  she  slowly  put 
her  veil  aside,  and  displayed  a  pale,  kindly, 
middle-aged  face,  slightly  marked  by  old 
scars  of  smallpox.  It  was  not  Alice;  it 
was  the  real  Sister  Seraphina  who  stood 
before  him. 

His  first  revulsion  of  bitter  disappoint- 
ment was  so  quickly  followed  by  a  realiza- 
tion that  all  had  been  discovered,  and  his 
sacrifice  of  yesterday  had  gone  for  naught, 
that  he  stood  before  her,  stammering,  but 
without  the  power  to  say  a  word.  Luckily 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      187 

for  him,  his  utter  embarrassment  seemed  to 
reassure  her,  and  to  calm  that  timidity 
which  his  brusque  man-like  irruption  might 
well  produce  in  the  inexperienced,  contem- 
plative mind  of  the  recluse.  Her  voice  was 
very  sweet,  albeit  sad,  as  she  said  gently :  — 

"  I  am  afraid  I  have  taken  you  by  sur- 
prise ;  but  there  was  no  time  to  arrange  for 
a  meeting,  and  the  Lady  Superior  thought 
that  I,  who  knew  all  the  facts,  had  better 
see  you  confidentially.  Father  Cipriano 
gave  us  your  address." 

Amazed  and  wondering,  Key  bowed  her 
to  a  seat. 

"  You  will  remember,"  she  went  on  softly, 
"  that  the  Lady  Superior  failed  to  get  any 
information  from  you  regarding  the  brother 
of  one  of  our  dear  children,  whom  he  com- 
mitted to  our  charge  through  a  —  a  com- 
panion or  acquaintance  —  a  Mrs.  Barker. 
As  she  was  armed  with  his  authority  by 
letter,  we  accepted  the  dear  child  through 
her,  permitted  her  as  his  representative  to 
have  free  access  to  his  sister,  and  even 
allowed  her,  as  an  unattended  woman,  to 
pass  the  night  at  the  convent.  W^e  were 
therefore  surprised  this  morning  to  receive  a 


188      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

letter  from  him,  absolutely  forbidding  any 
further  intercourse,  correspondence,  or  asso- 
ciation of  his  sister  with  this  companion, 
Mrs.  Barker.  It  was  necessary  to  inform 
the  dear  child  of  this  at  once,  as  she  was  on 
the  point  of  writing  to  this  woman ;  but  we 
were  pained  and  shocked  at  her  reception  of 
her  brother's  wishes.  I  ought  to  say,  in 
justice  to  the  dear  child,  that  while  she  is 
usually  docile,  intelligent,  and  tractable  to 
discipline,  and  a  devote  in  her  religious 
feelings,  she  is  singularly  impulsive.  But 
we  were  not  prepared  for  the  rash  and 
sudden  step  she  has  taken.  At  noon  to-day 
she  escaped  from  the  convent !  " 

Key,  who  had  been  following  her  with  re- 
lief, sprang  to  his  feet  at  this  unexpected 
culmination. 

"  Escaped !  "  he  said.  "  Impossible  !  I 
mean,"  he  added,  hurriedly  recalling  him- 
self, "your  rules,  your  discipline,  your  at- 
tendants are  so  perfect." 

"  The  poor  impulsive  creature  has  added 
sacrilege  to  her  madness  —  a  sacrilege  we 
are  willing  to  believe  she  did  not  under- 
stand, for  she  escaped  in  a  religious  habit  — 
my  own." 


I2V  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       189 

"  But  this  would  sufficiently  identify  her," 
he  said,  controlling  himself  with  an  effort. 

"  Alas,  not  so  !  There  are  many  of  us 
who  go  abroad  on  our  missions  in  these  gar- 
ments, and  they  are  made  all  alike,  so  as  to 
divert  rather  than  attract  attention  to  any 
individuality.  We  have  sent  private  mes- 
sengers in  all  directions,  and  sought  her 
everywhere,  but  without  success.  You  will 
understand  that  we  wish  to  avoid  scandal, 
which  a  more  public  inquiry  would  create." 

"  And  you  come  to  me,"  said  Key,  with  a 
return  of  his  first  suspicion,  in  spite  of  his 
eagerness  to  cut  short  the  interview  and  be 
free  to  act,  —  "  to  me,  almost  a  stranger  ?  " 

"  Not  a  stranger,  Mr.  Key,"  returned  the 
religieuse  gently,  "  but  to  a  well-known 
man  —  a  man  of  affairs  in  the  country  where 
this  unhappy  child's  brother  lives  —  a  friend 
who  seems  to  be  sent  by  Heaven  to  find  out 
this  brother  for  us,  and  speed  this  news  to 
him.  We  come  to  the  old  pupil  of  Father 
Cipriano,  a  friend  of  the  Holy  Church ;  to 
the  kindly  gentleman  who  knows  what  it  is 
to  have  dear  relations  of  his  own,  and  who 
only  yesterday  was  seeking  the  convent 
to"  — 


190      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF   THE  HILLS. 

"  Enough  !  "  interrupted  Key  hurriedly, 
with  a  slight  color.  "  I  will  go  at  once.  I 
do  not  know  this  man,  but  I  will  do  my  best 
to  find  him.  And  this  —  this  —  young  girl  ? 
You  say  you  have  no  trace  of  her  ?  May  she 
not  still  be  here  ?  I  should  have  some  clue 
by  which  to  seek  her  —  I  mean  that  I  could 
give  to  her  brother." 

"  Alas !  we  fear  she  is  already  far  away 
from  here.  If  she  went  at  once  to  San  Luis, 
she  could  have  easily  taken  a  train  to  San 
Francisco  before  we  discovered  her  flight. 
We  believe  that  it  was  the  poor  child's  in- 
tent to  join  her  brother,  so  as  to  intercede 
for  her  friend  —  or,  perhaps,  alas !  to  seek 
her." 

"  And  this  friend  left  yesterday  morn- 
ing?" he  said  quickly,  yet  concealing  a  feel- 
ing of  relief.  "  Well,  you  may  depend  on 
me !  And  now,  as  there  is  no  time  to  be 
lost,  I  will  make  my  arrangements  to  take 
the  next  train."  He  held  out  his  hand, 
paused,  and  said  in  almost  boyish  embar- 
rassment :  "  Bid  me  God  speed,  Sister  Sera- 
phina ! " 

"  May  the  Holy  Virgin  aid  you,"  she 
said  gently.  Yet,  as  she  passed  out  of  the 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      191 

door,  with  a  grateful  smile,  a  characteristic 
reaction  came  over  Key.  His  romantic  be- 
lief in  the  interposition  of  Providence  was 
not  without  a  tendency  to  apply  the  ordinary 
rules  of  human  evidence  to  such  phenomena. 
Sister  Seraphina's  application  to  him  seemed 
little  short  of  miraculous  interference ;  but 
what  if  it  were  only  a  trick  to  get  rid  of 
him,  while  the  girl,  whose  escapade  had 
been  discovered,  was  either  under  restraint 
in  the  convent,  or  hiding  in  Santa  Luisa? 
Yet  this  did  not  prevent  him  from  mechani- 
cally continuing  his  arrangements  for  depar- 
ture. When  they  were  completed,  and  he 
had  barely  time  to  get  to  the  station  at  San 
Luis,  he  again  lingered  in  vague  expectation 
of  some  determining  event. 

The  appearance  of  a  servant  with  a  tele- 
graphic message  at  this  moment  seemed  to 
be  an  answer  to  this  instinctive  feeling.  He 
tore  it  open  hastily.  But  it  was  only  a 
single  line  from  his  foreman  at  the  mine, 
which  had  been  repeated  to  him  from  the 
company's  office  in  San  Francisco.  It  read, 
"  Come  at  once  —  important." 

Disappointed  as  it  left  him,  it  determined 
his  action ;  and  as  the  train  steamed  out  of 


192      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

San  Luis,  it  for  a  while  diverted  his  atten- 
tion from  the  object  of  his  pursuit.  In  any 
event,  his  destination  would  have  been  Skin- 
ner's or  the  Hollow,  as  the  point  from  which 
to  begin  his  search.  He  believed  with  Sister 
Seraphina  that  the  young  girl  would  make 
her  direct  appeal  to  her  brother ;  but  even 
if  she  sought  Mrs.  Barker,  it  would  still  be 
at  some  of  the  haunts  of  the  gang.  The  let- 
ter to  the  Lady  Superior  had  been  post- 
marked from  "  Bald  Top,"  which  Key  knew 
to  be  an  obscure  settlement  less  frequented 
than  Skinner's.  Even  then  it  was  hardly 
possible  that  the  chief  of  the  road  agents 
would  present  himself  at  the  post-office,  and 
it  had  probably  been  left  by  some  less  known 
of  the  gang.  A  vague  idea,  that  was 
hardly  a  suspicion,  that  the  girl  might  have 
a  secret  address  of  her  brother's,  without 
understanding  the  reasons  for  its  secrecy, 
came  into  his  mind.  A  still  more  vague 
hope,  that  he  might  meet  her  before  she 
found  her  brother,  upheld  him.  It  would  be 
an  accidental  meeting  on  her  part,  for  he  no 
longer  dared  to  hope  that  she  would  seek  or 
trust  him  again.  And  it  was  with  very  little 
of  his  old  sanguine  quality  that,  travel-worn 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.     193 

and  weary,  he  at  last  alighted  at  Skinner's. 
But  his  half  careless  inquiry  if  any  lady 
passengers  had  lately  arrived  there,  to  his 
embarrassment  produced  a  broad  smile  on 
the  face  of  Skinner. 

**  You  're  the  second  man  that  asked  that 
question,  Mr.  Key,"  he  said. 

"  The  second  man  ?  "  ejaculated  Key  ner- 
vously, 

"  Yes  ;  the  first  was  the  sheriff  of  Sierra. 
He  wanted  to  find  a  tall,  good-looking 
woman,  about  thirty,  with  black  eyes.  I 
hope  that  ain't  the  kind  o'  girl  you  're  look- 
ing arter  —  is  it  ?  for  I  reckon  she 's  gin 
you  both  the  slip." 

Key  protested  with  a  forced  laugh  that  it 
was  not,  yet  suddenly  hesitated  to  describe 
Alice ;  for  he  instantly  recognized  the 
portrait  of  her  friend,  the  assumed  Mrs. 
Barker.  Skinner  continued  in  lazy  confi- 
dence :  — 

"Ye  see  they  say  that  the  sheriff  had 
sorter  got  the  dead  wood  on  that  gang  o' 
road  agents,  and  had  hemmed  'em  in  some- 
whar  betwixt  Bald  Top  and  Collinson's.  But 
that  woman  was  one  o'  their  spies,  and  spot- 
ted his  little  game,  and  managed  to  give  'ein 


194      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

the  tip,  so  they  got  clean  away.  Anyhow, 
they  ain't  bin  heard  from  since.  But  the 
big  shake  has  made  scoutin'  along  the 
ledges  rather  stiff  work  for  the  sheriff. 
They  say  the  valley  near  Long  Canon 's  chock 
full  o'  rock  and  slumgullion  that 's  slipped 
down." 

"  What  do  you  mean  by  the  big  shake  ?  " 
asked  Key  in  surprise* 

"Great  Scott!  you  didn't  hear  of  it? 
Did  n't  hear  of  the  'arthquake  that  shook 
us  up  all  along  Galloper's  the  other  night  ? 
Well,"  he  added  disgustedly,  "  that 's  jist 
the  conceit  of  them  folks  in  the  bay,  that 
can't  allow  that  any  thin  happens  in  the 
mountains !  " 

The  urgent  telegrams  of  his  foreman  now 
flashed  across  Key's  preoccupied  mind. 
Possibly  Skinner  saw  his  concern.  "I 
reckon  your  mine  is  all  right,  Mr.  Key. 
One  of  your  men  was  over  yere  last  night, 
and  did  n't  say  nothin'." 

But  this  did  not  satisfy  Key ;  and  in  a 
few  minutes  he  had  mounted  his  horse  and 
was  speeding  towards  the  Hollow,  with  a  re- 
morseful consciousness  of  having  neglected 
his  colleagues'  interests.  For  himself,  in 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      195 

the  utter  prepossession  of  his  passion  for 
Alice,  he  cared  nothing.  As  he  dashed 
down  the  slope  to  the  Hollow,  he  thought 
only  of  the  two  momentous  days  that  she 
had  passed  there,  and  the  fate  that  had 
brought  them  so  nearly  together.  There 
was  nothing  to  recall  its  sylvan  beauty  in 
the  hideous  works  that  now  possessed  it,  or 
the  substantial  dwelling-house  that  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  old  cabin.  A  few  hurried 
questions  to  the  foreman  satisfied  him  of  the 
integrity  of  the  property.  There  had  been 
some  alarm  in  the  shaft,  but  there  was  no 
subsidence  of  the  "  seam,"  nor  any  difficulty 
in  the  working.  "  What  I  telegraphed  you 
for,  Mr.  Key,  was  about  something  that  has 
cropped  up  way  back  o'  the  earthquake. 
We  were  served  here  the  other  day  with  a 
legal  notice  of  a  claim  to  the  mine,  on  ac- 
count of  previous  work  done  on  the  ledge 
by  the  last  occupant." 

"  But  the  cabin  was  built  by  a  gang  of 
thieves,  who  used  it  as  a  hoard  for  their 
booty,"  returned  Key  hotly,  "  and  every  one 
of  them  are  outlaws,  and  have  no  standing 
before  the  law."  He  stopped  with  a  pang 
as  he  thought  of  Alice.  And  the  blood 


196      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

rushed  to  his  cheeks  as  the  foreman  quietly 
continued :  — 

"But  the  claim  ain't  in  any  o'  their 
names.  It 's  allowed  to  be  the  gift  of  their 
leader  to  his  young  sister,  afore  the  out- 
lawry, and  it 's  in  her  name  —  Alice  Riggs 
or  something,," 

Of  the  half-dozen  tumultuous  thoughts 
that  passed  through  Key's  mind,  only  one 
remainedo  It  was  purely  an  act  of  the  bro- 
ther's to  secure  some  possible  future  benefit 
for  his  sister.  And  of  this  she  was  perfectly 
ignorant!  He  recovered  himself  quickly, 
and  said  with  a  smile :  — 

"  But  /  discovered  the  ledge  and  its  au- 
riferous character  myself.  There  was  no 
trace  or  sign  of  previous  discovery  or  mining 
occupation,," 

"  So  I  jedged,  and  so  I  said,  and  thet  puts 
ye  all  right.  But  I  thought  I  'd  tell  ye  ;  for 
mining  laws  is  mining  laws,  and  it 's  the  one 
thing  ye  can't  get  over, "  he  added,  with  the 
peculiar  superstitious  reverence  of  the  Cali- 
fornian  miner  for  that  vested  authority. 

But  Key  scarcely  listened.  All  that  he 
had  heard  seemed  only  to  link  him  more  fate- 
fully  and  indissolubly  with  the  young  girl. 


JZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      197 

He  was  already  impatient  of  even  this  slight 
delay  in  his  quest.  In  his  perplexity  his 
thoughts  had  reverted  to  Collinson's:  the 
mill  was  a  good  point  to  begin  his  search 
from;  its  good-natured,  stupid  proprietor 
might  be  his  guide,  his  ally,  and  even  his 
confidant. 

When  his  horse  was  baited,  he  was  again 
in  the  saddle.  "  If  yer  going  Collinson's 
way,  yer  might  ask  him  if  he 's  lost  a  horse, " 
said  the  foreman.  "The  morning  after  the 
shake,  some  of  the  boys  picked  up  a  mustang, 
with  a  make-up  lady's  saddle  on."  Key 
started !  While  it  was  impossible  that  it 
could  have  been  ridden  by  Alice,  it  might 
have  been  by  the  woman  who  had  preceded 
her. 

"  Did  you  make  any  search  ? "  he  in- 
quired eagerly j  "there  may  have  been  an 
accident." 

"  I  reckon  it  was  n't  no  accident,"  returned 
the  foreman  coolly,  "  for  the  riata  was  loose 
and  trailing,  as  if  it  had  been  staked  out,  and 
broken  away." 

Without  another  word,  Key  put  spurs  to 
his  horse  and  galloped  away,  leaving  his  com- 
panion staring  after  him.  Here  was  a  clue  .= 


198      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

the  horse  could  not  have  strayed  far  ;  the 
broken  tether  indicated  a  camp ;  the  gang 
had  been  gathered  somewhere  in  the  vicinity 
where  Mrs.  Barker  had  warned  them,  —  per- 
haps in  the  wood  beyond  Collinson's.  He 
would  penetrate  it  alone.  He  knew  his 
danger;  but  as  a  single  unarmed  man  he 
might  be  admitted  to  the  presence  of  the 
leader,  and  the  alleged  claim  was  a  suffi- 
cient excuse.  What  he  would  say  or  do 
afterwards  depended  upon  chance.  It  was 
a  wild  scheme  —  but  he  was  reckless.  Yet 
he  would  go  to  Collinson's  first. 

At  the  end  of  two  hours  he  reached  the 
thick-set  wood  that  gave  upon  the  shelf  at 
the  top  of  the  grade  which  descended  to  the 
mill.  As  he  emerged  from  the  wood  into 
the  bursting  sunlight  of  the  valley  below9 
he  sharply  reined  in  his  horse  and  stopped,, 
Another  bound  would  have  been  his  last,, 
For  the  shelf,  the  rocky  grade  itself,  the 
ledge  below,  and  the  mill  upon  it,  were  all 
gone !  The  crumbling  outer  wall  of  the  rocky 
grade  had  slipped  away  into  immeasurable 
depths  below,  leaving  only  the  sharp  edge 
of  a  cliff,  which  incurved  towards  the  woods 
that  had  once  stood  behind  the  mill,  but 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.      199 

which  now  bristled  on  the  very  edge  of  a 
precipice.  A  mist  was  hanging  over  its 
brink  and  rising  from  the  valley;  it  was  a 
full-fed  stream  that  was  coursing  through  the 
former  dry  bed  of  the  river  and  falling  down 
the  face  of  the  bluff.  He  rubbed  his  eyes, 
dismounted,  crept  along  the  edge  of  the  pre- 
cipice, and  looked  below :  whatever  had  sub- 
sided and  melted  down  into  its  thousand  feet 
of  depth,  there  was  no  trace  left  upon  its 
smooth  face.  Scarcely  an  angle  of  di'ift  or 
debris  marred  the  perpendicular  ;  the  burial 
of  all  ruin  was  deep  and  compact  ;  the  era- 
sure had  been  swift  and  sure — the  oblitera- 
tion complete.  It  might  have  been  the  pre- 
cipitation of  ages,  and  not  of  a  single  night. 
At  that  remote  distance  it  even  seemed  as  if 
grass  were  already  growing  over  this  enor* 
mo  us  sepulchre,  but  it  was  only  the  tops  of 
the  buried  pines.  The  absolute  silence,  the 
utter  absence  of  any  mark  of  convulsive 
struggle,  even  the  lulling  whimper  of  fall- 
ing waters,  gave  the  scene  a  pastoral  re- 
pose. 

So  profound  was  the  impression  upon  Key 
and  his  human  passion  that  it  at  first  seemed 
an  ironical  and  eternal  ending  of  his  quest. 


200      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

It  was  with  difficulty  that  he  reasoned  that 
the  catastrophe  occurred  before  Alice's  flight, 
and  that  even  Collinson  might  have  had  time 
to  escape.  He  slowly  skirted  the  edge  of 
the  chasm,  and  made  his  way  back  through 
the  empty  woods  behind  the  old  mill-site  to- 
wards the  place  where  he  had  dismounted. 
His  horse  seemed  to  have  strayed  into  the 
shadows  of  this  covert ;  but  as  he  approached 
him,  he  was  amazed  to  see  that  it  was  not 
his  own,  and  that  a  woman's  scarf  was  lying 
over  its  side -saddle,,  A  wild  idea  seized 
him,  and  found  expression  in  an  impulsive 
cry :  — 

"Alice  I " 

The  woods  echoed  it ;  there  was  an  inter- 
val of  silence,  and  then  a  faint  response. 
But  It  was  her  voice.  He  ran  eagerly  for- 
ward in  that  direction,  and  called  again  j  the 
response  was  nearer  this  time,  and  then  the 
tall  ferns  parted,  and  her  lithe,  graceful 
figure  came  running,  stumbling,  and  limping 
towards  him  like  a  wounded  fawn.  Her 
face  was  pale  and  agitated,  the  tendrils  ot 
her  light  hair  were  straying  over  her  shoulder, 
and  one  of  the  sleeves  of  her  school-gown 
was  stained  with  blood  and  dust«  He  caught 


IN  A  IIOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       201 

the  white  and  trenibliug  hands  that  were 
thrust  out  to  him  eagerly. 

"  It  is  you  !  "  she  gasped.  "  I  prayed  for 
some  one  to  come,  but  I  did  not  dream  it 
would  be  you.  And  then  I  heard  your 
voice  —  and  I  thought  it  could  be  only  a 
dream  until  you  called  a  second  time." 

"  But  you  are  hurt,"  he  exclaimed  pas- 
sionately. "  You  have  met  with  some  acci- 
dent !  " 

"  No,  no !  "  she  said  eagerly.  "  Not  1 
—  but  a  poor,  poor  man  I  found  lying  on 
the  edge  of  the  cliff.  I  could  not  help  him 
much,  I  did  not  care  to  leave  him.  No  one 
would  come !  I  have  been  with  him  alone, 
all  the  morning !  Come  quick,  he  may  be 
dying." 

He  passed  his  arm  around  her  waist 
unconsciously;  she  permitted  it  as  uncon- 
sciously, as  he  half  supported  her  figure 
while  they  hurried  forward. 

"  He  had  been  crushed  by  something,  and 
was  just  hanging  over  the  ledge,  and  could 
not  move  nor  speak,"  she  went  on  quickly. 
"  I  dragged  him  away  to  a  tree,  —  it  took 
me  hours  to  move  him,  he  was  so  heavy,  — 
and  I  got  him  some  water  from  the  stream 


202      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

and  bathed  his  face,  and  blooded  all  my 
sleeve." 

"  But  what  were  you  doing  here  ?  "  he 
asked  quickly. 

A  faint  blush  crossed  the  pallor  of  her 
delicate  cheek.  She  looked  away  quickly. 
"I  —  was  going  to  find  my  brother  at 
Bald  Top,"  she  replied  at  last  hurriedly. 
"  But  don't  ask  me  now  —  only  come  quick, 
do." 

"  Is  the  wounded  man  conscious  ?  Did 
you  speak  with  him  ?  Does  he  know  who 
you  are  ?  "  asked  Key  uneasily. 

"  No  !  he  only  moaned  a  little  and  opened 
his  eyes  when  I  dragged  him.  I  don't  think 
he  even  knew  what  had  happened." 

They  hurried  on  again.  The  wood  light- 
ened suddenly.  "  Here !  "  she  said  in  a  half 
whisper,  and  stepped  timidly  into  the  open 
light.  Only  a  few  feet  from  the  fatal  ledge, 
against  the  roots  of  a  buckeye,  with  her 
shawl  thrown  over  him,  lay  the  wounded 
man. 

Key  started  back.     It  was  Collinson  ! 

His  head  and  shoulders  seemed  uninjured  ; 
but  as  Key  lifted  the  shawl,  he  saw  that  the 
long,  lank  figure  appeared  to  melt  away 


IZV  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       203 

below  the  waist  into  a  mass  of  shapeless 
and  dirty  rags.  Key  hurriedly  replaced  the 
shawl,  and,  bending  over  him,  listened  to 
his  hurried  respiration  and  the  beating  of 
his  heart.  Then  he  pressed  a  drinking-flask 
to  his  lips.  The  spirit  seemed  to  revive 
him ;  he  slowly  opened  his  eyes.  They  fell 
upon  Key  with  quick  recognition.  But  the 
look  changed ;  one  could  see  that  he  was 
trying  to  rise,  but  that  no  movement  of  the 
limbs  accompanied  that  effort  of  will,  and 
his  old  patient,  resigned  look  returned.  Key 
shuddered.  There  was  some  injury  to  the 
spine.  The  man  was  paralyzed. 

"  I  can't  get  up,  Mr.  Key,"  he  said  in  a 
faint  but  untroubled  voice,  "  nor  seem  to 
move  my  arms,  but  you  '11  just  allow  that 
I  've  shook  hands  with  ye  —  all  the  same." 

"  How  did  this  happen  ? "  said  Key 
anxiously. 

"  Thet  's  wot  gets  me !  Sometimes  I 
reckon  I  know,  and  sometimes  I  don't. 
Lyin'  thar  on  thet  ledge  all  last  night,  and 
only  jest  able  to  look  down  into  the  old  val- 
ley, sometimes  it  seemed  to  me  ez  if  I  fell 
over  and  got  caught  in  the  rocks  trying  to 
save  my  wife ;  but  then  when  I  kem  to 


204      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

think  sensible,  and  know  my  wife  wasn't 
there  at  all,  I  get  mystified.  Sometimes  I 
think  I  got  ter  thinkin'  of  my  wife  only 
when  this  yer  young  gal  thet  's  bin  like 
an  angel  to  me  kem  here  and  dragged 
me  off  the  ledge,  for  you  see  she  don't  be- 
long here,  and  hez  dropped  on  to  me  like  a 
sperrit." 

"  Then  you  were  not  in  the  house  when 
the  shock  came  ?  "  said  Key. 

"  No.  You  see  the  mill  was  filled  with 
them  fellers  as  the  sheriff  was  arter,  and  it 
went  over  with  'em  —  and  I  "  • 

"Alice,"  said  Key,  with  a  white  face, 
"  would  you  mind  going  to  my  horse,  which 
you  will  find  somewhere  near  yours,  and 
bringing  me  a  medicine  case  from  my  sad- 
ille-bags  ?  " 

The  innocent  girl  glanced  quickly  at  her 
companion,  saw  the  change  in  his  face,  and, 
attributing  it  to  the  imminent  danger  of  the 
injured  man,  at  once  glided  away.  When 
she  was  out  of  hearing,  Key  leaned  gravely 
over  him :  — 

"  Collinson,  I  must  trust  you  with  a 
secret.  I  am  afraid  that  this  poor  girl  who 
helped  you  is  the  sister  of  the  leader  of 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       205 

that  gang  the  sheriff  was  in  pursuit  of.  She 
has  been  kept  in  perfect  ignorance  of  her 
brother's  crimes.  She  must  never  kno\v 
them  —  nor  even  know  his  fate !  If  he 
perished  utterly  in  this  catastrophe,  as  it 
would  seem  —  it  was  God's  will  to  spare  her 
that  knowledge.  I  tell  you  this,  to  warn  you 
in  anything  you  say  before  her.  She  must 
believe,  as  I  shall  try  to  make  her  believe, 
that  he  has  gone  back  to  the  States  — 
where  she  will  perhaps,  hereafter,  believe 
that  he  died.  Better  that  she  should  know 
nothing  —  and  keep  her  thought  of  him  un- 
changed." 

"  I  see  —  I  see  —  I  see,  Mr.  Key,"  mur- 
mured the  injured  man.  "  Thet  's  wot  I  've 
been  sayin'  to  myself  lyin'  here  all  night. 
Thet 's  wot  I  bin  sayin'  o'  my  wife  Sadie,  — 
her  that  I  actooally  got  to  think  kem  back 
to  me  last  night.  You  see  I  'd  heerd  from 
one  o'  those  fellars  that  a  woman  like  unto 
her  had  been  picked  up  in  Texas  and 
brought  on  yere,  and  that  mebbe  she  was 
somewhar  in  Californy.  I  was  that  foolish 
—  and  that  ontrue  to  her,  all  the  while 
knowin',  as  I  once  told  you,  Mr.  Key,  that 
ef  she  'd  been  alive  she  'd  bin  yere  —  that  I 


206      IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

believed  it  true  for  a  minit !  And  that  was 
why,  afore  this  happened,  I  had  a  dream, 
right  out  yer,  and  dreamed  she  kem  to  me, 
all  white  and  troubled,  through  the  woods. 
At  first  I  thought  it  war  my  Sadie ;  but 
when  I  see  she  warn't  like  her  old  self,  and 
her  voice  was  strange  and  her  laugh  was 
strange  —  then  I  knowed  it  was  n't  her,  and 
I  was  dreamin'.  You  're  right,  Mr.  Key, 
in  wot  you  got  off  just  now — wot  was  it? 
Better  to  know  nothin'  —  and  keep  the  old 
thoughts  unchanged." 

"  Have  you  any  pain  ?  "  asked  Key  after 


"  No  ;  I  kinder  feel  easier  now." 
Key  looked  at  his  changing  face.     "  Tell 
me,"    he    said    gently,   "  if    it  does  not  tax 
your  sti'ength,  all  that  has  happened  here, 
all  you  know.     It  is  for  her  sake." 

Thus  adjured,  with  his  eyes  fixed  on  Key, 
Collinson  narrated  his  story  from  the  irrup- 
tion of  the  outlaws  to  the  final  catastrophe. 
Even  then  he  palliated  their  outrage  with 
his  characteristic  patience,  keeping  still  his 
strange  fascination  for  Chivers,  and  his 
blind  belief  in  his  miserable  wife.  The 
Story  was  at  times  broken  by  lapses  of  faint- 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       207 

ness,  by  a  singular  return  of  his  old  abstrac- 
tion and  forgetfulness  in  the  midst  of  a  sen- 
tence, and  at  last  by  a  fit  of  coughing,  that 
left  a  few  crimson  bubbles  on  the  corners  of 
his  mouth.  Key  lifted  his  eyes  anxiously ; 
there  was  some  grave  internal  injury,  which 
the  dying  man's  resolute  patience  had  sup- 
pressed. Yet,  at  the  sound  of  Alice's  re- 
turning step,  Collinson's  eyes  brightened, 
apparently  as  much  at  her  coming  as  from 
the  effect  of  the  powerful  stimulant  Key  had 
taken  from  his  medicine  case. 

"I  thank  ye,  Mr.  Key,"  he  said  faintly; 
"  for  I  've  got  an  idea  I  ain't  got  no  great 
time  before  me,  and  I  've  got  suthin'  to  say 
to  you,  afore  witnesses  "  —  his  eyes  sought 
Alice's  in  half  apology  —  "  afore  witnesses, 
you  understand.  Would  you  mind  standin' 
out  thar,  afore  me,  in  the  light,  so  I  kin  see 
you  both,  and  you,  miss,  reniemberin',  ez  a 
witness,  suthin'  I  got  to  tell  to  him  ?  You 
might  take  his  hand,  miss,  to  make  it  more 
regular  and  lawlike." 

The  two  did  as  he  bade  them,  standing 
side  by  side,  painfully  humoring  what 
seemed  to  them  to  be  wanderings  of  a  dying 


208       IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  Thar  was  a  young  fellow,"  said  Collin- 
son  in  a  steady  voice,  "  ez  kem  to  my  shanty 
a  night  ago  on  his  way  to  the  —  the  —  val- 
ley. He  was  a  sprightly  young  fellow,  gay 
and  chipper-like,  and  he  sez  to  me,  confi- 
dential-like,  '  Collinson,'  sez  he,  '  I  'm  off  to 
the  States  this  very  night  on  business  of  im- 
portance ;  mebbe  I  '11  be  away  a  long  time 
—  for  years !  You  know,'  sez  he,  '  Mr. 
Key,  in  the  Hollow  !  Go  to  him,'  sez  he, 
'  and  tell  him  ez  how  I  had  n't  time  to  get  to 
see  him ;  tell  him,'  sez  he,  '  that  Rivers  '  — 
you  've  got  the  name,  Mr.  Key  ?  —  you  Ve 
got  the  name,  miss  ?  —  '  that  Rivers  wants 
him  to  say  this  to  his  little  sister  from  her 
lovin'  brother.  And  tell  him,'  sez  he,  this 
yer  Rivers,  '  to  look  arter  her,  being  alone.' 
You  remember  that,  Mr.  Key  ?  you  remem- 
ber it,  miss  ?  You  see,  I  remembered  it, 
too,  being,  so  to  speak,  alone  myself  "  —  he 
paused,  and  added  in  a  faint  whisper  — 
"  till  now." 

Then  he  was  silent.  That  innocent  lie 
was  the  first  and  last  upon  his  honest  lips  ; 
for  as  they  stood  there,  hand  in  hand,  they 
saw  his  plain,  hard  face  take  upon  itself,  at 
first,  the  gray,  ashen  hues  of  the  rocks  around 


IN  A  HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS.       209 

him,  and  then  and  thereafter  something  of 
the  infinite  tranquillity  and  peace  of  that 
wilderness  in  which  he  had  lived  and  died, 
and  of  which  he  was  a  part. 

Contemporaneous  history  was  less  kindly. 
The  "  Bald  Top  Sentinel  "  congratulated  its 
readers  that  the  late  seismic  disturbance  was 
accompanied  with  very  little  loss  of  life,  if 
any.  "  It  is  reported  that  the  proprietor  of 
a  low  shebeen  for  emigrants  in  an  obscure 
hollow  had  succumbed  from  injuries ;  but," 
added  the  editor,  with  a  fine  touch  of  West- 
ern humor,  "  whether  this  was  the  result  of 
his  being  forcibly  mixed  up  with  his  own 
tanglefoot  whiskey  or  not,  we  are  unable  to 
determine  from  the  evidence  before  us." 
For  all  that,  a  small  stone  shaft  was  added 
later  to  the  rocks  near  the  site  of  the  old 
mill,  inscribed  to  the  memory  of  this  obscure 
"  proprietor,"  with  the  singular  legend : 
"  Have  ye  faith  like  to  him  ?  "  And  those 
who  knew  only  of  the  material  catastrophe, 
looking  around  upon  the  scene  of  desolation 
it  commemorated,  thought  grimly  that  it 
must  be  faith  indeed,  and  —  were  wiser  than 
they  knew. 


'210      IN  A   HOLLOW  OF  THE  HILLS. 

"  You  smiled,  Don  Preble,"  said  the  Lady 
Superior  to  Key  a  few  weeks  later,  "  when  I 
told  to  you  that  many  caballeros  thought  it 
most  discreet  to  intrust  their  future  brides 
to  the  maternal  guardianship  and  training 
of  the  Holy  Church ;  yet,  of  a  truth,  I  meant 
not  you.  And  yet  —  eh !  well,  we  shall  see." 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

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1820 

£35 

v.6 


The  works  of 
Bret  Harte 


PS 

1820 
E85 
v.6 


